


Portrait of a Man (Portrait of a Crime)

by princessoftheworlds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019, Eventual Happy Ending, Evil Alexander Pierce, F/F, FBI Agent Bucky Barnes, Fake Major Character Deaths, Flashbacks, Heist, M/M, POV Minor Character, Post-Prison, Post-Time Skip, Protective Steve Rogers, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-03-29 16:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19023886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: Art forger-slash-thief Steve Rogers and FBI-agent-gone-rogue Bucky Barnes are the perfect partners—in crime and in bed—until a surprise visit from Bucky’s ex-colleagues puts an abrupt end to a morning of post-heist bliss.Ten years later, Steve is out of prison and ready to reclaim his stolen masterpieces. But with his erstwhile crew scattered, Bucky gone without a trace, and one Agent Coulson ready for another round of cat-and-mouse, it would be a tricky job regardless of the mark. Unfortunately, the bulk of the art has been auctioned off to Alexander Pierce: a corrupt, practically untouchable federal judge with a sinister connection to Steve’s missing lover.It’s a high-stakes heist that needs a masterstroke to succeed. Alongside his crew, Steve must find his paintings, bring down Pierce, and save his man—or watch his last big score become a portrait of a tragedy.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Portrait of a Man (Portrait of a Crime)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/490759) by PeachesArt. 



> This fic is my contribution to the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019! It was a fun couple of months writing this while balancing my classes and finals! I would like to thank my amazingly talented artist [Peaches Art Studio](https://twitter.com/PeachesArt/), my beta/cheerleader [Jaune-Chat](https://jaune-chat.tumblr.com/), and most finally, my lovely and amazing friend A. 
> 
> Please do keep the tags in mind, and I hope you enjoy this fic! Posting will be completed on Saturday, June 15, with the addition of the art and an additional edit!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky receive an unwanted visit from the FBI.

 

 

Sunlight streams freely and copiously through the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up one wall of the Manhattan penthouse, casting the open space in a golden glow. There’s a paint-splattered easel in one corner with a half-complete canvas, rags that used to be white and now are a faded gray tucked around the side. Mismatched pieces of two tuxedos lie rumpled on the floor, one bowtie here, another suit jacket there. And tangled in the sheets of the king bed positioned directly under the sun’s beams, pillows strewn across the hardwood floor, are two young men in their mid-twenties, both shirtless and curled in towards each other, a perfect pair of parentheses.

 

Steve Rogers, blond hair flattened across his head from sleep and blue eyes blinking blearily, is first to wake, stretching his aching limbs in the warmth of the sun and the nest of blankets and sheets. His gaze quickly to turns to find his boyfriend lying beside him, and he smiles contentedly, nuzzling closer.

 

Bucky Barnes, a year older but just a few inches shorter, stirs when Steve slips an arm around his waist but really only cracks his eyes open to reveal a sliver of his stormy gaze when the other man cards a gentle hand through the mussed mess of brown curls on his head. “Keep doing that,” Bucky orders in a gravelly voice, eyes flickering completely open a few moments after Steve’s careful ministrations.

 

“Alright, Buck,” Steve whispers in just a voice as sleep-torn. Amusedly, he inches closer to complete the short gap between them and presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s lips. “Whatever you order.” His lips travel to Bucky’s sharp jawline, dragging all the way down to the slope of his neck where Bucky hums and tilts his head to allow Steve more access.

 

As Steve begins to slowly suck a bruise into the skin at the junction of Bucky’s shoulder and neck, Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “Trying to initiate another round there, Stevie?” He stretches contentedly with a cat-like grace that translates quite well to every aspect of his life. Especially the sex. “I’m still sore from last night.” He smirks. “Besides, I think you still have battle scars that need to heal.”

 

Like one of the canvases he paints, Steve blushes bright red from head-to-toe. The battle scars that Bucky’s referencing are the bruises that Bucky’s mouth sucked into his chest and the scratches Bucky’s nails scored on his back. Of course, Bucky’s sporting his own battle scars from another passionate night a few days previous, but those have begun to fade. “I went a bit overboard last night,” Steve reasons, ducking his head. “In my defense, we had a very close call getting out of the gala.”

 

Bucky fixes him with a telling stare, cocking his eyebrows. “You, as team leader, assigned us one job - the distraction, because you were afraid that with Nat and Sam, there would be too many bodies moving the art. Yet you were also ready to fuck my brains out in a very public bathroom.” He pauses, tone light and teasing. “I think you’re the reason we had a very close call.”

 

“Fine,” Steve replies, his lips still roving across Bucky’s upper torso but staying only in relatively innocuous spots. “Next time, you can plan the heist.”

 

“Gladly,” Bucky hums before inching forward.

 

Their lips meet again, and this time, the kiss grows a little in intensity and passion, but it’s not going to go anywhere. It’s just them, in bed together, enjoying the warmth of the sun, forming a moment and memory that will linger even when the mouth-shaped bruises fade. These are Steve’s favorite kinds of memories, and although Bucky always wishes to remain in movement and in action, he won’t deny that he loves these types of post-heist mornings either.

 

“ _FBI! You’re under arrest!_ ”

 

In a series of events that unravels as slowly as thick-flowing honey, the door to their penthouse crashes open and to the floor, knocked down by a battering ram and ripped off its hinges. A swarm of blue-jacket agents, _FBI_ emblazoned in yellow on the back, sides, and front of their windbreakers, flood into the space. They surround the bed in seconds while others begin to strip the penthouse of its furniture and art, carrying it out. The case of gold coins from the museum in Wales that Steve stole before he met Bucky. The jeweled Faberge eggs from the Italian consulate they stole together. The newest collection of forgeries drying around Steve’s easel.

 

Before Steve can process it, he’s yanked quite cruelly to his feet, his arms held in an iron-tight grip by one agent. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the glint of something metallic as another agent reaches to the belt slung around his waist. Then cool metal is slipped around his wrists, and Steve’s eyes widen uncontrollably as he realizes that he’s being handcuffed. He begins to writhe in panic, attempting to wriggle out of the agent’s grasp, but is unsuccessful as the handcuffs are finally tightened.

 

Across the bed from him, Bucky’s being drawn into a similar situation, his wrists bound behind his back, but before Steve can make eye contact with him, their attention is drawn by two men striding into the bedroom. One is slight but with a muscular build and the beginnings of a receding hairline of brown hair; despite his suit and tie and FBI windbreaker, Agent Phil Coulson is fairly bland-looking and could be easily overlooked in a crowd. His superior would not be. Special-Agent-In-Charge Nicholas J. Fury is the definition of the word intimidating, tall, bald, and wearing a suit and a FBI windbreaker; only one brown eye travels between Steve and Bucky, the other covered with a black eye patch with jagged scars spreading outwards.

 

“Gentlemen,” Fury says in his deep baritone. “Glad we finally all reached the same place. It was getting a bit tiring for us to constantly have to play catch-up. Wasn’t it, Coulson?” He turns to his right-hand man in an exaggerated manner.

 

Coulson nods, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “It really was, sir.”

 

“You can’t do this, Fury,” Steve snarls as his gaze fixes on an agent carrying by the framed portrait of the stolen Raphael's “St. George and the Dragon.” He renews his passionate struggle. “You can’t take that,” he shouts futilely at the agent.

 

“Actually,” Fury intercedes, tilting his head back to assess Steve, “Agent Amador can take that. Anything and everything in this penthouse is either evidence or now the property of the FBI.” He pauses. “Oh? Did I mention? Under the orders of federal judge Alexander Pierce and the FBI, you, Steven Grant Rogers, are under arrest on charges of art theft and bond forgery.”

 

Steve bares his teeth at Fury in an animalistic snarl, but Fury rolls his eye and turns his attention to Bucky. “Agent Barnes,” he says, tone indecipherable. “Looks like we got your boyfriend eventually, though perhaps it would have been easier if you had stayed on the right side of the law.” He steps forward. “James Barnes, you’re under arrest for aiding and abetting a wanted criminal, for art theft, and for bond forgery.”

 

“Understood,” Bucky replies with a silent nod of acknowledgement, eyes narrowing. Besides that, he has nothing else to say to his former boss.

 

With a nod, Fury sights. “I wish it didn’t have to happen this way, Rogers,” he tells Steve with a tired expression. “If you were on the right side, you could have been one of us.”

 

It’s the first time he’s heard Fury utter such a sentiment in the few times they’ve been face-to-face or talked in the years of this long cat-and-mouse game they’ve been playing, and it makes Steve’s anger and shock fizzle out. “We’ll never know now,” he tells Fury calmly. “You won, Fury.”

 

“I guess I did,” he replies.

 

“What are you going to do now?”

 

“I’m tired,” Fury says, “and now, I think I’ll retire.”

 

There’s nothing left to say between any of them, Steve’s shoulders slumping in resignation and Bucky bowing his head, so Fury gestures at the two agents standing behind them. “Take them away,” he orders.

 

As he’s shuffled away, torn from his sleek, risky life and knowing that nothing’s ever going to be the same ever again, Steve’s eyes lock one final time with those of the love of his life. Bucky’s expression is shuttered, but then he smiles slightly at Steve.

 

_I’m with you ‘til the end of the line_ , he mouths.

 

Steve nods. ‘ _Til the end of the line_ , he mouths back. Then the FBI agent at Steve’s back shoves him forward, and Steve obeys, moving into the hallway and further and further away from Bucky, the penthouse, and freedom.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets released from prison. Sam goes to pick him up.

“Where the hell is this white boy?” Sam grumbles as he taps the touch screen of his smartphone to check the time for what seems the third time in the last ten minutes. He glances up at the gate, scanning the chain-link fence again. Still no sign of Steve. “He owes me big time. Never gave me an actual time to pick him up.” The time on his phone still hasn’t changed. He looks up again and then nearly flinches back in surprise. In the brief moment that Sam was staring at his phone, a distinctive blond-haired man has appeared at the gate and is approaching Sam’s car, parked across the street, at a rapid pace. “Still dramatic, I see,” Sam mutters to himself.

 

When close, Steve sidles around the car and opens the passenger-side door to slide in. Then he turns to regard Sam, and before Sam knows it, he’s engulfed in a forgotten but still familiar embrace. Steve’s arms are slung awkwardly over Sam’s back, and there’s the center console digging into Sam’s stomach, but he doesn't care. It’s nice to be hugging his best friend again, even if Steve hasn’t said anything yet.

 

Steve finally sits back, leaning against the soft fabric of the seat, and Sam gets his first good luck at him.

 

“What the fuck, Rogers?” he says astonishedly, taking in Steve’s fresh haircut, the tired eyes, and - most jarringly - his sweatshirt and sweatpants with the FBI logo. “Why are you endorsing the guys who arrested you?”

 

The other man shrugs, tilting his head and sizing up Sam. “It was the only thing they could find when I was arrested,” he says, and Sam suddenly remembers that Steve was literally dragged from his bed and handcuffed.

 

“Right.” Sam nods. “Anyways. I’m sorry I couldn’t come in and visit you. The phone calls were nice, but I couldn’t risk coming in and getting arrested beside you. It wouldn’t help either of us; I’m sure they would somehow make my sentence more severe.”

 

“Hey,” says Steve, turning to eye Sam. He smiles. “I don’t care. At least I heard from you. That’s what matters.” His expression darkens. “Ten years is a long time.”

 

“It is,” Sam agrees, watching Steve carefully. He heard some bad shit about what prison can do to a person, even if their sentence was for something less violent like art theft. “Now, what next? Where to? You’re calling the shots.”

Steve hums considerately, thinking. Finally, eyes fixed on the road ahead of them, he says, “I could use a burger.”

 

“That,” Sam replies dramatically, “I can do.” He merges lanes before glancing over at Steve. “Just one caveat. You’re going to need to change.”

 

* * *

 

 

One hour and a Yelp search later, Sam’s seated across from Steve in a red, shiny booth in a random diner somewhere in Virginia. Steve’s no longer looking like a knock-off FBI agent since Sam loaned him his own long sleeved t-shirt and jeans from his suitcase in the trunk of his rental. They were never really the same size - Steve having always been more muscular, but now, Steve fits a bit better into Sam’s clothes, having lost more than a few pounds in prison.

 

A waitress with a low-slung ponytail, tired eyes, and a little apron sets a plate down in front of Steve with the kind of burger you only see in television advertisements. Perfect, shiny bun. Crisp-looking lettuce. A beef patty with yellow melted-on cheese that somehow doesn’t look artificial. In front of Sam, she sets a clear glass of Coke, and he reaches for it, desperately feeling like he needs the sugar.

 

As soon as the waitress leaves, Steve falls upon the burger like a voracious wolf. Or like a hungry guy who was just released from prison.

 

“Woah,” Sam says in concern, still sipping at his Coke, when Steve’s disappeared half his burger. “Slow down. Don’t want you to choke.”

 

Steve sets down his burger on the plate, glaring at Sam with sauce smeared all around his mouth. “This is the first proper meal I’ve had in ten years, Wilson. Prison food is a different kind of torture; it’s bland as hell.”

 

“Right.” Sam holds his hands in front of him defensively. “Sorry.” Once Steve returns to his burger, Sam sips at his Coke again until the glass is empty and then lazily swirls the straw around the glass, mixing the water from the melting ice with whatever remains in the glass. He turns his attention outside to the window, watching people strolling by hand-in-hand and enjoying the afternoon light.

 

Having finished his burger, Steve pushes his plate away and wipes his hands on a thick wad of napkins. “Tell me,” he says.

 

“What do you wanna know?” Sam asks.

 

“Where is everyone?” Steve demands, words a little rushed. His eyes, wild and bright, are intently focused on Sam.

 

“Well,” Sam begins, fiddling with the edge of the paper straw wrapper. “After your arrest, Tony finally proposed to Pepper. He decided to turn Stark Industries legitimate.”

 

Steve’s eyebrows raise until they nearly reach his hairline. “Damn. Good for Tony.” His smile is genuine. “So he’s retired.” He smiles. “What about Clint?”

 

“Also retired.” Sam pauses. “I think he and Laura have had their third kid now. Haven’t heard from them for a while.” He shrugs.

 

Steve nods. “And Nat?”

 

“She comes and goes,” Sam explains, straightening up against the red vinyl of the booth. “I’ve seen her a couple of times, but we don’t really keep in touch.” When Steve makes a curious expression, Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s hard to avoid attention when your closest associate was arrested very dramatically by the FBI. I don’t really do any big heists anymore. Just smaller cons. Same for Nat, I think. She’s been bouncing back between Canada, Russia, and New York.”

 

The other man chuckles. “That sounds just like Nat. It’s the only way you would even know she was born in Russia; her need for vodka and her need for ice and snow.”

 

A laugh bubbles out of Sam. “Don’t worry about finding her. She’ll find you first. Likely will yell at you first for a couple hours about being dumb enough to get arrested.”

 

“Are you going to yell at me too?” Steve asks pointedly.

 

Sam shakes his head. “I think I already did enough of that during our phone calls. I gotta cut you some slack. What you’ve been through is not exactly a cakewalk.” Immediately, Steve’s expression shutters, and Sam backpedals. “We don’t have to talk about it now - or ever - if you want. Just an offer.”

 

“Thanks,” Steve replies, some of his genuine brightness poking through his smile, “but I don’t know if I’ll ever take you up on that.”

 

“Up to you, man.” Sam shrugs.

 

The silence between them starts to become a little awkward and heavy, then Steve blurts out, “What happened to everyone else?”

 

“Well,” Sam begins, tapping his fingers against the table. “Five years ago, Skye hacked into the FBI, and then Coulson caught her a few months later.”

 

“Oh,” Steve groans. “That’s such a pity. She was so fun to work with. Best in the business too.”

 

Sam’s eyebrows raise. _He wouldn’t be so stupid to get right back into action just after getting out of prison_ , he thinks. _Or actually, he probably would._ It’s Steve. He’s a dumbass. “Well, you’re missing the best plot twist. Coulson recruited her into the FBI. She’s working for them now.”

 

Steve sputters on air. “ _What the fuck_?”

 

“Exactly,” Sam says wryly. “Less shocking, Scott did end up getting arrested. He’s been in and out of jail a few times.” He counts off on his fingers. “Oh, and Rumlow and Rollins have been off the grid for a couple of years now.”

 

Steve nods. “Of course.”

 

They revert back to silence, but Sam can sense the question eating away at Steve. There’s one individual in particular he wants to inquire about; it’s almost as if he’s mustering courage to ask.

 

Finally, Steve asks, his voice small and barely above a whisper, “What about Bucky?”

 

Sam wishes he didn’t have to tell Steve, but no one else will. “I’m sorry, Steve,” he says, locking eyes with the other man, “but no one’s heard from Bucky since you both were arrested.”

 

“His sentence was shorter than mine?” Steve says, almost like it’s some kind of protest. “He should be out by now.”

 

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know, Steve. I don’t know where he is; I tried looking once, and I couldn’t find him. It’s almost like Bucky Barnes dropped off the face of the earth.”


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Daisy both receive a surprise visitor. Sam gets approached by Steve with an offer.

Phil Coulson rolls over in his standard, white cotton sheets, throat aching and painfully dry, before propping himself against his pillows. He reaches over to his bedside table and pulls on the chain to light his table lamp, casting a glance over the parts of his bedroom the light illuminates. Tomorrow’s clothes - a plan black suit and a white dress shirt - are hung on the outside of his wardrobe door. His dress shoes - the soles customized to be similar to those of combat boots - are polished and lined up at the base of his bed. His tie is pressed and draped over his mirror. And though he can’t see it, his gun is a smooth lump under the other pillow, and under some silent warning siren going off in his head, he reaches for it, smoothly sliding from his bed.

 

He tiptoes into the kitchen, where - as the paranoid federal agent that he is - he’s left a light on, and he reaches for the glass he’d left on the counter beside the refrigerator and fills it up with water from the sink. After he takes a long gulp of water, he finally addresses the presence he’s been able to feel at his back for a while now.  “Ten years is a long time not to see someone, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Steve Rogers replies as he crosses his legs, adjusting his position in the loveseat he’s sitting in. “It is.” His smile is illuminated by the lone kitchen light. “Let’s not do that again.” He looks well for someone who’s been in a low-security prison for a decade, eyes still as sharp and alarming. He’s dressed in an elegant black suit, expensive judging from the detailed fabric and elegantly-knotted tie that catches Phil’s trained eye.

 

“It only works that way if you don’t do any crime.” Phil leans against the kitchen counter, still sipping at his water, gaze fixed on Rogers. “Do you plan to do any more? It was a bit quiet without you around. I was starting to miss those years of our cat-and-mouse chase.”

 

Rogers laughs smoothly in reply. “Even if I was going to, Agent Coulson, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Besides, this is an off-the-record visit, just between the cat and mouse.”

 

There’s no way this can go well. Hastily, Phil interrupts Rogers, “As a federal agent, I am afraid that I am obligated to report any encounters with former criminals-”

 

“It’s about Bucky.”

 

“-but seeing as that you are not currently suspected of any crimes, this meeting can stay off-the-record.” Phil sets his glass aside on the counter and approaches Rogers, taking a seat on the opposing couch. “What about Agent Barnes?”

 

It must be urgent for Rogers considering that he doesn’t even protest the improper use of Barnes’ title, the one he was technically stripped of. “I don’t know where he is,” Rogers admits. “Do you?”

 

“I am afraid that after he was sentenced, the FBI lost track of him. Both of your files were sealed off and archived. It would take permission from my higher-ups to unseal those files, which won’t be possible.” Phil offers him a genuine apologetic smile. 

 

“What about Fury?” Rogers asks, tone insistent. “Doesn’t he have some kind of pull with the Bureau or anywhere else?” He sounds desperate, and Phil should have expected this, perhaps kept track of them after their arrest or something. Rogers would do anything for Barnes, anything. Especially something illegal.

 

“Agent Fury retired shortly after your arrest. He would not wish to be pulled back into all of this.” Phil rubs the bridge of his nose, sighing. “I’m sorry. I did and do have a soft spot for Bucky, but there’s essentially nothing I can legally do. My hands are tied.”

 

Rogers nods and moves to stand. “Thanks, Phil.” He glances down. “It was worth a try.” He begins to make his way towards Phil’s front door before turning back. “Just one question. What happened to our possessions after they were seized by the FBI?”

 

Heading back to his bedroom, Phil stops, tiredly facing Rogers. “After a few years, the FBI auctions criminals’ property off.” As he continues into his bedroom, he calls over his shoulder, “Shut the door behind you.”

 

A resounding thud of the door is his only response.

 

* * *

 

A tired Daisy Johnson fishes in her pocket for her keys with one hand, the other balancing a bag containing a very delicious burger that she walked too many blocks and paid too much money for. She would have loved a milkshake too, but there was only so much she could carry. It’s been a very,  _ very  _ long day at work - she would have never have thought that the FBI could be this  _ boring _ , and she just wants to take her bra off, slip into her bed, and eat while watching Netflix.

 

Quietly swearing, she juggles the bag until she can finally grasp her keys and then unlocks the door, shouldering it open. When she turns around to face her apartment, entirely prepared to  _ gently  _ drop her backpack to the ground, she accidentally drops the paper bag of her burger instead, startled at the unexpected guest she finds seated on her ratty couch.

 

“Motherfucker,” she snarls, gritting her teeth. Her gaze darts from the soiled bag on her hardwood flooring, its contents likely smushed now, to Steve Rogers, still sitting there as handsome as a fucking statue and not offering condolences for her loss. “You owe me a burger.” She pouts. “I was really looking forward to eating that.” There’s a bit of a whine to her voice now, and she’s not necessarily  _ proud  _ of that fact, but right now, with all of her day’s weight still pressing down on her shoulders, she can’t bring herself to care.

 

Steve, the asshole that he’s always been despite his ten-year absence in her life, chuckles warmly. “Glad you’re still the same, Skye.”

 

The old name catches Daisy off-guard for a moment. “It’s Daisy now. Daisy Johnson.” She smiles. “You’ve missed a bit.”

 

“Clearly.” His tone is dry as he stands and approaches her. “Congrats on your new job. It really took me aback when Sam told me. Did they offer you the name, or did you choose it yourself?”

 

Despite knowing Steve as both a brother-figure, a mentor, and a master thief, Daisy still feels a twinge of surprise at the lack of menace in his words. He really is just glad for her, even though she now works for the proverbial enemy. “Nah,” she says, slipping her arms around his waist to embrace him. She basks in his warmth, inhaling his musky scent that hasn’t changed even despite his prison term. Tilting her head so that her voice drifts to his ear, she continues, “It’s not a fake identity. Daisy Johnson is the real me, the one I was searching for.” 

 

They separate as she steps back, and she observes the moment that his expression shifts with comprehension. The seventeen-year-old hacker, newly free from Saint Agnes Orphanage, that he met all those years ago and took under his wing has finally found her parents and her birth name. “Here I was, thinking I could lure you back,” Steve jokes. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Daisy.”

 

“I wish I could say the same to you,” she tells him, knowing that he can hear both the steel and the warmth to her words, “but as a federal agent, I am obligated-”

 

“-to report me?” Steve shrugs. “Yeah, I’ve heard the spiel. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can, but first, I need to finally cash in on that favor you owe me.”

Daisy groans, her cheeks burning. “Dude, it better not be something that will get me in trouble.” As much as she likes and is grateful to Steve Rogers, she doesn’t not want to risk this life that she has finally built and is content with. Then again, she also know that it’s Steve Rogers. He is fiercely protective over those he cares about and wouldn’t risk their safety or lives. Only unless it’s truly necessary. And judging by the lack of urgency in his features, his favor is likely low on the risk factor.

 

“Don’t worry,” he assures her nonetheless. “It’s less illegal since you’re already an FBI agent. I just need a list of names of anyone and everyone who bought my possessions that the FBI seized after my arrest. Specifically, anyone who bought my art.”

 

Her eyebrows raise. “That’s not even illegal,” she notes. “It’ll just look a bit odd, but I can figure out some lie.” She slips her backpack off and sets it on the counter to fish out her laptop. “Just give me an hour.” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, and go get me a new burger.”

 

“Good.” His lips curve up into a bright smile; he’s likely happy that he’s not costing her anything. “Any preferences?”

 

“Just a chocolate milkshake.” She doesn’t bother glancing at him as she makes her way to her couch, sinks down, and powers on her laptop, hearing the door shut softly as Steve leaves. “That’s the price you have to pay for a colorful past,” she mutters. 

 

Not to be arrogant, but Daisy is a good hacker. Not just good, but one of the  _ best _ in the country. That’s why it took Coulson so many weeks to find her after she broke through the FBI firewalls and tore apart the system, looking for any information on her parents. So when she told Steve an hour, she’s actually done in forty minutes, and when he returns with her burger and milkshake in hand, he finds her sorting through print-outs of the information he asked for.

 

“You're done,” says Steve in surprise as her apartment door opens and he enters.

 

“Well, duh.” She makes grabby hands at the contraband in Steve's grasp, which he hands her.

 

“Find anything interesting?”

 

As she peels back the wrappings of her burger, she takes a peek back at the print-outs. “One thing. Does the name Alexander Pierce ring a bell?”

 

Something indecipherable flashes across Steve's features. “Isn't he a federal judge?” A moment later, he asks, “Why?”

 

“He bought most of your art collection. Almost three-fourths of it.” She bites into her replacement burger and chews, sighing; it’s everything she needs, especially after today. 

 

Steve nods, lost in thought. After a few silent moments, he finally stands. “Thanks, Daisy.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” she tells him in between mouthfuls of burger. “But no more favors.”

 

A smile splits across his face. “Noted.” He comes closer and leans down to press a kiss to her cheek. “I wish you all the luck in the world.” With that, he begins to head for the door. 

 

“No more crimes either,” she calls after him, hearing him laugh.

 

She has just the slightest sense that he won’t stay true to the last one.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, man, what’s up?” Sam says as he embraces Steve briefly. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” It’s true; he hasn’t seen Steve since he disappeared from Sam’s Brooklyn apartment about a week ago, the very apartment he has now returned to.

 

Steve shrugs, raking a hand through his hair. He’s beginning to look more like himself - or well  more like the Steve Sam met and knew a decade ago, completed with a white t-shirt that’s at least one size too small, jeans, and that sleek brown leather jacket he always seems to favor. “I’ve been around. Found a safehouse or two of mine.”

 

That explains the clothes, especially the jacket. “You want coffee?” When Steve nods, Sam moves around his kitchen island to fiddle with his Keurig. One of the perks of his profession as a con man? He can afford small luxuries. “So,” he begins conversationally, “what do you plan to do? Now that you’re outta prison?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Sam doesn’t turn to face Steve. “What’s next for Steve Rogers? Knowing you - which I do, you still have emergency stashes hidden across the globe-”

 

“That might be a bit generous,” Steve mutters, ducking his head.

 

“Okay, hidden across the country,” Sam continues. “But still. I know you have enough money to do whatever you want. You could actually become a painter. Or travel the world without scouting places to rob. Or just return to school, actually get one of those three degrees you claim to have.” His eyes widen and become questioning. “You have all these possibilities. So what’s next for you, Steve Rogers?”

 

“I want my stuff back,” Steve says, a very unSteve-like gleam in his eyes.

 

Sam buries his head in his hands, groaning. “Fuck.” He would be a hypocrite to speak - considering that his profession is still very illegal itself, but he was really hoping that Steve would decide to start a new, more legal chapter in his life. “From who?”

 

“Alexander Pierce,” states Steve very plainly. “When the FBI arrested Buck and I, they seized our possessions. After a few years, they auctioned most of it off. Pierce bought a majority of my art, and I want it back.”

 

“Okay…” Sam rubs his temple, breathing out very slowly. “Your art or stuff you stole?”

 

“Both.”

 

He needs a drink; he should have offered Steve bourbon instead of coffee. Sam grabs a bottle of whatever alcohol he has - which sadly turns out to be some very cheap whine - and takes a swig straight from the bottle as soon as he pops the cork off, not even bothering to get a glass.

 

“It’s four o’clock in the morning,” Steve notes amusedly, eyes raised. 

 

“You just gave me some very stressful news, asshole.” Sam sets the bottle down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The wine is gross and weak, but it fills his body with a much-necessary warmth. 

 

Steve’s lips quirk into a smile, and Sam finds himself dreading what Steve will say next. “You won’t like the next part.” His smile becomes sheepish. “I want you to help me.”

 

“Damn it.” Sam swipes the bottle from the counter again and keeps drinking. “Why do you always do this to me, Rogers?” He watches Steve’s expression become uncertain. “Who’s Alexander Pierce anyways? Isn’t he a federal judge? Does he have some beef with you?” 

 

Steve shrugs. “I dunno. I’ve never really met him, but Bucky would mention him from time to time. He had some close ties with New York’s White Collar division. I think he was close with Fury.” He hums as if he’s forgotten something. “Oh, yeah. He was the one who sentenced me and Buck.”

 

“Fuck.” Sam finishes the bottle off and drops it in the trash can. “Anything else?”

 

Shaking his head, Steve attempts a hesitant smile. “So, you in?”

 

Sam sighs. “Do I really have a choice?” He paces along his kitchen island. “When I first met you, you were one reckless motherfucker. Barnes evened you out a bit, but he’s not here right now.” Hurt floods Steve’s face at the mention of Bucky, but Sam forges on, “Someone has to make sure you won’t get yourself killed.” 

 

“Is that a yes?” 

 

He sighs again. “Fine. I will help you on your crazy heist to rob a federal judge.”

 

The smile that splits Steve’s features could blind the sun.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha finally reunites with Steve. Later, Steve forms his crew, and they formulate a plan.

“Nat?”

 

Natasha Romanoff, occasionally known as Natalie Rushman - or more rarely and less favored - as Natalia Romanova, stops her quick stride towards the alley She tucks one stray lock of sleek red behind her ear, ensuring that the rest of her hair is still knotted up in its glossy bun. Then she finally turns to face her tail.

 

She had noticed him six blocks back - he either wasn’t very good at stalking or he wanted her to notice him, but she hadn’t said anything. She had been waiting for him to approach. Friend or not, it’s been ten years since she’s seen him, and she expects Steve Rogers to make the first move. Now, he has.

 

“Why would you come to me now?” she asks, amusement hidden in the lilt of her voice. “I was expecting you a week ago.”

 

Steve’s cheeks flush bright, and he ducks his head, fiddling with zipper on the cheap windbreaker he slipped off a hanger in the little street market they had passed through two blocks back in an attempt to disguise himself. “I _was_ going to come to meet you,” he attempts lamely, and Natasha sniffs. “I just had some business to sort out.”

 

Her eyes narrow. “You’re plotting a new heist,” she correctly deduces, “and you want my help.”

 

“I can never hide anything from you, can I?” He sighs briefly before beaming at her. “I missed you, Nat.”

 

“And you chose a dirty alleyway for our reunion?” She toes a crumpled fast food wrapper on the cement with the tip of her designer boot, cocking an elegant eyebrow skeptically. “I _do_ feel appreciated.”

 

“Asshole,” Steve grumbles. “Sam was easier to reunite with. If you wanted a kinder welcome, you should have come and picked me up from prison.”

 

She purses her lips to mask her smile. He played right into her verbal trap, and now, she’s going to flay him alive for being stupid enough for getting arrested. “And if you wanted a kinder welcome, you should have been more careful and not gotten yourself caught by the FBI.” She shakes her head. “And by Fury and Coulson nonetheless. In your fucking underwear. _Idiot_.”

 

His beautiful eyes flash with alarm and terror. “That’s not what I meant,” he begins to backpedal.

 

“Oh, _really_?” She crosses her arms across her chest.

 

“What do you know about Alexander Pierce?” he blurts out.

 

Natasha won’t be budged by a desperate attempt to distract her, and her lips part to begin her tirade. Then she catches the name he said, and her brows furrow. “A little,” she admits, attempting to gauge why he’s asking. “What do you know?”

 

“Likely the same as you.” Steve sighs, impressively-muscled chest - hey, he may be her friend, and she may not be single, but Natasha’s very bi and very much allowed to ogle him - heaving. “Let me start over.” He pauses before affecting a friendly expression and voice. “Hey, Nat. Lovely to see you after ten years. Do you want to join me on a heist against Alexander Pierce? You can bring one other trusted person of your choice.”

 

“Charming,” Natasha replies dryly. “What do I get?”

 

“My gratitude.” His eyes watch her intently. “And a currently undetermined but sizeable sum of money.”

 

“You should have led with the money.” She smiles wolfishly, the corners of her red-painted lips quirked up.

 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Great. Thanks.” With his exasperated expression, he looks exactly like the young Steve Rogers Natasha met, the man who was barely more than a boy who moved through the world with intent and never let his hesitation show to anyone except those who knew him well. Like Natasha.

 

He turns to leave but then stiffens. When he faces Natasha again, his expression has shifted dramatically, his eyes taking on a darker edge, one that gives Natasha a sense that he didn’t make it out of prison entirely the same as before. “Nat,” he says, suddenly breathlessly. “If anyone would know, it’s you.” He is frenzied. “Where is Bucky?”

 

Natasha flinches back at the sheer desperation and urgency in his words, but she knows that this must be Steve’s last ditch effort. That’s why it kills her to say, “I don’t know, Steve.”

 

“What?” The hunger in his expression vanishes, his face becoming shuttered off.

 

“I don’t know,” she repeats softly. “Wherever he is, all I know is that he’s safe. That I can promise you.”

 

Steve nods, but he’s not satisfied. Bucky is his weak spot; Natasha had never seen two humans take so well to each other, love each other so deeply, until she had introduced Bucky to Steve. Steve will find some way to find Bucky; that she’s sure of. “Thanks, Nat,” Steve replies finally. He offers her a feeble smile before striding away and exiting the alley.

 

* * *

 

 

_“So which one of these guys is Rogers?” Bucky asks, ducking his head closer to Natasha’s until his lips brush the sensitive ring of her inner ear. To any outsiders, they must look like two lovers seated at the bar and sharing an intimate conversation, but at that thought, Natasha shudders. Bucky’s her foster brother; when they were in the system together, he was her protector and taught her how to throw a proper punch or how to knee boys in the balls._

 

_Natasha hums, gaze travelling around the bar. “There he is,” she replies in a hushed voice that barely carries over the guitar-heavy music the establishment is playing, pointing out where Steve Rogers had just walked into the bar. She watches as Bucky’s eyes become hungry as they take in Steve’s fine jaw, his golden hair, and narrow waist. “Relax.” She nudges Bucky with her elbow. “You look like you want to eat him. You’re here to get in his crew, not his pants.”_

 

_“Can’t I do both?” Bucky asks breathlessly, and then Steve has spotted them and is striding towards them._

 

_“Play it cool,” Natasha warns him before standing to embrace Steve. “Rogers, it’s been a few weeks.” She rises on her tiptoes to press an affectionate kiss to Steve’s cheek._

 

_He briefly wraps a warm arm around her waist and brushes his lips across her head before stepping back. “How was Luxembourg?”_

 

_“Profitable.” Later, she’ll tell him about how one of the new members of her crew that she picked up in Europe broke his leg climbing down from the museum roof, but now’s not the time. She steps aside, gesturing towards Bucky. “Steve, meet James Barnes.”_

 

_“Pleasure,” Steve replies. “Any friend of Nat’s is a friend of mine.”_

 

_“No, I believe that the pleasure is mine,” Bucky quips back, eyes dancing mischievously. He focuses intently on Steve._

 

_Natasha coughs discreetly.”Laying it on a bit thick,” she mutters, but Steve isn’t unreceptive to the attention. In fact, he’s blushing brightly in a way that Natasha’s only seen him do when he’s embarrassed or Sam is ribbing him too much._

 

_Bucky runs a hand through his styled hair, mussing his curls a bit, and Steve’s eyes darken before he swallows dry. “So,” Steve stutters, quickly recomposing himself, “as much as I’d like to welcome you to our heist, I just need to make sure that you’re as good as Nat says.”_

 

_“Alright.” Bucky shrugs. “What do you want me to do?”_

 

_“Bring me the most valuable thing in this room,” Steve orders._

 

_Shrugging again, Bucky slips from his stool and rises to his full height, stretching out his limbs. As he sidles past them, he intentionally brushes against Steve, flirting with him just a little bit more, before melting into the crowd._

 

_Raising her hand to gesture the bartender, Natasha orders drinks for Steve and herself, and then they turn to watch the crowd. It’s a Friday night, and the bar is fairly packed, making it hard to keep an eye on Bucky, but they occasionally catch sight of him slipping through the crowd like a fish through water, flirting with everyone._

 

_“Why didn’t you warn me about your friend?” Steve demands grumpily, turning to briefly face Natasha._

 

_“About what?” she asks, sipping at her liquor. “That he likes to flirt?”_

 

 _“No,” Steve replies. “That he’s so fucking_ pretty _.” His voice takes on a slight whine, and he’s still blushing brightly._

 

_“Oh, Steve,” Natasha murmurs, shaking her head in amusement, “you absolute disaster bi.”_

 

_About ten minutes later, Bucky returns with a gleeful expression. He empties out his bulging pockets; there’s a few wallets, two phones, an expensive-looking ring, a couple of wads of cash, and a lone earring._

 

_Steve’s eyes widen. “That’s impressive for such a quick pickpocketing trip, but how are these the most valuable things in the room?”_

 

_“They’re valuable to someone,” Bucky explains, hands tucked into his pockets as he leans causally against the bar counter. “Emotionally or physically.”_

 

_“I guess.” The other man’s reply is a bit stilted, and only from knowing Steve does Natasha understand that he’s a bit disappointed. He’d expected more from Bucky than simple thievery. “Lemme pay for my drink, and we’ll talk more.” He reaches into his own pocket for his wallet, but his mouth pinches when he apparently finds it missing, quickly patting through all of his pockets. “Real funny, Nat,” he says sarcastically._

 

_Rolling her eyes, Natasha shakes her head. “It wasn’t me.”_

 

_“Wrong person,” Bucky says, his mouth curving into a smug smirk. He flips a leather wallet between his fingers._

 

_Steve’s mouth gapes. “How? That was on the inside of my jacket.”_

 

_“Don’t underestimate a pretty boy, Rogers,” Natasha chimes in, unable to resist teasing him further._

 

_“Besides,” Bucky begins, “everyone’s own possessions are the most valuable thing in the room to them. So I took yours.”_

 

_Steve hides a smile. “Clearly, I underestimated you. Can I have my wallet back now?” He catches it as Bucky nods and tosses it to him. “Welcome to the crew, I guess.”_

 

_“Oh, no,” Bucky purrs, turning his own complete charm and charisma back on poor Steve. “I want a more formal welcome. Buy me a drink.”_

 

_They’re basically eye-fucking at this point, so Natasha sighs and pays for her own drink. She slips off her stool and heads toward the crowd, determine to find her own pretty boy or girl for tonight._

 

* * *

 

 

“What a lovely place to meet,” Sam grumbles as he enters the abandoned warehouse. “We couldn’t have just met at a safehouse, Steve?”

 

“I had to be cautious,” Steve explains.

 

Sam rolls his eyes and then takes notice of Natasha, expression lighting up. “Romanoff!” He strides quickly towards her and wraps her in a tight embrace. She nestles her head against his collarbone, relishing the warmth briefly until he releases her and steps back. “It’s been too long,” he says.

 

Natasha shrugs. “Too many eyes on me after this idiot,” she says as she gestures towards Steve, “got arrested. I had to go overseas. Besides, it’s not like we didn’t totally see each other for the decade.”

 

“Seeing you for a week every year doesn’t count, Natasha,” Sam tells her, and she laughs huskily, throwing back her head.

 

“Alright, enough,” Steve calls from where he’s rummaging through a few cardboard boxes set in the back of the otherwise mostly-empty warehouse. From his groan of frustration, he likely doesn’t find what he was looking for and stands instead, empty-handed. He face them and moves closer. “Where’s your recruit, Nat?”

 

“They’ll be here soon,” Natasha promises, checking her watch.

 

“Wait.” Sam frowns. “Why did she get to bring someone? I thought this was supposed to be a small crew.”

 

“It is,” Steve confirms with a sigh. “You just never know when you need an extra pair of hands. Besides, any more of people will make this heist too crowded.”

 

“Who’d you bring anyways?” Sam asks, gesturing towards Natasha. “Is it anyone we know? Anyone who was part of our old crew? Because don’t think I haven’t noticed how no one’s been around since Steve was arrested.” He rolls his eyes. “Loyalty really doesn’t mean anything anymore,” he grumbles.

 

“Hey,” Steve reprimands him, voice sharp and pained, “you guys are still here. And I’m grateful for that.” His smile is thin and tight, but there is a glimmer of warmth in his eyes.

 

Natasha exchanges a dark look with Sam, who looks slightly concerned. Clearly, she isn’t the only one who’s been watching Steve closely to see how he’s adjusting with his newfound freedom. Neither of them mention the man who used to make up the final member of their usual quartet crew and his mysterious disappearance.

 

Suddenly, there’s a sharp rap at the back entrance of the warehouse, and both men jump, startled, but Natasha knows who their visitor is. She strides forward to open the door and welcome them in, leaning in to press a short kiss to their lips.

 

“Hey, babe,” they greet her, and Natasha laughs softly in reply.

 

Arm wrapped around the newcomer, she turns to face Steve and Sam. “Rogers, Wilson, meet the newest member of the crew. This is Sh-”

 

“Sharon,” Steve breathes, face paling drastically.

 

“Uhhh,” Sam says, gaze darting awkwardly between Steve and Natasha.

 

“Steve,” Sharon replies politely. “Is that all we’re doing? Saying each other’s names? I thought this would be more exciting when Nat invited me. I’d always wanted to be part of a Rogers heist. They were always mythic and legendary.”

 

Steve is gaping now.

 

Sam sighs. “Alright, move on. Did you guys fuck or something? Date?” He silently chuckles to himself. “Why are you acting so weird, Rogers?”

 

At Sam’s use of _fuck_ , Steve shudders violently, and Sharon gags. “Oh, fuck, no,” Steve cries.

 

Sharon shakes her head, dismayed. “Gross, gross, gross, gross, gross.” She hesitates. “No, Steve here dated my aunt Peggy...before she died. We haven’t seen each other since the funeral.”

 

“Correction,” Steve says quickly, “we dated for a year. For the rest of the time, she was my mentor, the one who introduced me to heists and cons. Besides, I thought your dad tried to keep you away from the shady stuff.”

 

Shrugging, Sharon brushes hair away from her face. “It didn’t work.”

 

“Wait,” Sam says. “Peggy was your aunt? She was fierce. I always wished I could work with her more, but at least, she went out peacefully. Naturally. It’s more than people in our profession can ask for.”

 

 _True_ , Natasha thinks. Con men and women doesn’t usually live very balanced lives, often running into trouble or risks. She counts herself extremely lucky that she found love and a stable girlfriend in the form of Sharon.

 

“Thanks,” Sharon replies, ducking her head. “Now, tell us, Steve. What’s the heist?”

 

Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair before leading them over to a small, uneven table. As they all take seats around it, he pulls out a sleek laptop, powering it on, and turns it around to face them. The laptop’s dark screen fades away to reveal a high-quality picture of an older man with fading reddish-blond hair and bold blue eyes.

 

“Alexander Pierce,” Sharon says, turning sharply to Steve. “You wanna fuck with a federal judge?”

 

“More like Pierce already fucked with him,” Sam mutters offhandedly.

 

Disbelief stabs through Natasha like a fierce, unrelenting knife. She inhales loudly, and all attention turns to her suddenly. Lips set in a firm line, she narrows her eyes at Steve. “Is this revenge, Rogers?” When Steve’s expression doesn’t let up from his suspiciously serene smile, she shakes her head, running a hand through the short ends of her stylish bob. “You _know fucking better_ , Steve. Emotions and the job don’t mix. I thought Carter always taught you to plan with your head, not your heart.” Her eyes pierce into his. “That’s how jobs go awry. Someone ends up in _prison_.” She directs a pointed look towards Steve, but he refuses to meet her eyes. “Or dead. I know you’re smarter than this, Steve.”

 

“Aunt Peg did teach him better,” Sharon adds, “but it looks like he refused to learn.”

 

At Sharon’s dig, Steve flushes angrily but holds his head high and steady. “This is _not_ revenge,” he retorts, voice commanding and unwavering. “Pierce has my stuff; I just want it fucking back.”

 

“I thought Pierce bought it legally,” Sharon murmurs.

 

Sam rolls his eyes. “That literally just is the definition of revenge,” he whispers to no one in particular.

 

Steve looks like he’s going to growl, but he repeats, “I _just_ want to steal my stuff back.” Sighing, he glances away from them briefly. “Look, the only way I can pull this off is with all of you. So are you with me?”

 

“Look, man, we were always with you,” Sam replies, approaching Steve to press a comforting hand to his shoulder. “We just want to ensure that you’re addressing all possible concerns.”

 

Natasha nods, echoing Sam’s sentiment.

 

“Speak for yourself,” Sharon says, interlinking hands with Natasha. “Where would Pierce even have stored your stuff?”

 

“Considering that it’s mostly art and stolen artifacts,” Steve replies, “it’s probably all in his gallery. He calls it SHIELD.” Sharon nods, and Steve fixes his gaze on her. “So will you join?”

 

Natasha’s girlfriend shrugs. “It looks like Natty trusts you, so I guess so.”

 

 _Natty_? Sam mouths at Natasha, and she grits her teeth.

 

 _I will kill you personally_ , she mouths back.

 

“So it’s settled then,” Steve says.  “One last thing. When this is over, I’m done. With this life. With heists. With everything. I’m going to retire.” He nods. “So when this is over, we’ll split the money and go our separate ways.”

 

Natasha nods, and Sharon and Sam murmurs their agreements.

 

It seems to be the end of a closing era for Steve, one that started with his arrest; it’s likely he needs this heist as one last goodbye. Natasha can only hope that it all happens as he wants.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony makes a surprise phone call. Steve pays Alexander Pierce a visit.

_ Snikt. Snikt. Snikt. _

 

Steve’s knife slices into the raw carrot with a satisfying  _ crunch  _ each time he lifts the blade and bring it down on the orange vegetable until he hits the wooden chopping board below. An opaque bottle of white wine rests on the kitchen counter beside him, partially empty from the brief periods when Steve will reach over and take a long swig. He can get as drunk as he wants; he’s only cooking dinner for one.

 

It’s the one feature all his safehouses share: they have decent kitchens. Steve’s always had a passion for cooking, instilled in him by his mother Sarah before her death when he was sixteen. Despite Sarah’s job as a nurse, Steve had grown up in relative poverty; they couldn’t afford much, but Sarah had always taught him to make do with what they did have. When Steve had started dating Bucky, he’d loved cooking him dinner, but in the few weeks since his release, it had hurt Steve too much to do anything but order in. Now, however, he’s reached his limit. He just wants decent food and will cook it himself, damnnit. Regain control of his diet and appetite that prison took away.

 

Slicing savagely into the end of the carrot, Steve reaches for another one and raises the knife again. As he sweeps the inedible bits into the compost, he pretends that every time he turns around, he doesn’t get a flash of a handsome dark-haired man seated at the island, flirting with him. 

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Steve hisses, his heart twinging painfully. He balls up his fist and waits for the tears to retreat. He’ll accidentally slice off a finger if his vision is blurry.

 

His phone chooses that exact moment to ring, and he grabs it and press it to his ear, accepting the call without checking caller ID. 

 

“ _ Steven Grant _ !”

 

At the volume of the staticky voice erupting from his phone speaker, Steve flinches back and nearly drops his phone. “Fuck,” he repeats. “Stark?”

 

“Who’d you expect,” Tony snarks, “the Michelin Man? Yeah, of course, it’s me. Don’t think that you can plan a heist without me hearing about it, Rogers?”

“But I thought you were retired,” Steve states, bewildered. “Sam told me you married Pepper.”

 

“That I did, Neal Caffrey,” Tony replies, and the sound of him fiddling with something carries over the speaker. “I did also promise Pep to not be physically involved with anything.”

 

Steve ignores the confusing nickname. “Then why did you call?”

 

“Ah ah ah, I promised Pep that I wouldn’t be  _ physically  _ involved with anything.” Tony laughs breathlessly. “But as you see, now that I am a legitimate businessman, I have found myself coming into a great deal of money. And if you were - to say - come into a position where you needed money, I would be happy to oblige. If not, I also have gadgets.”

 

Warmth blooms in Steve’s heart. “Thanks, Tony,” he replies, smiling ear-to-ear, “that means a lot. Thank you.”

 

“You can’t see me, but I just rolled my eyes,” Tony states dryly. “Consider this payback for all the times you saved my ass, Rogers.” He pauses. “And how you refused to let me break you out of prison.”

 

Steve chokes out a laugh and shakes his head. “Thanks, Tony. Bye.” 

 

As he reaches to end the call, Tony calls his name again. “Hold up,” he says. “There’s one last thing I’m doing for you. I’ve heard you’re having a problem finding your Buckaroo, so I’m putting all my eyes out.”

 

His heart stutters in his chest, and Steve inhales sharply. “ _ Thank you _ , Tony,” he says. “I’ll miss you.”

 

“I know you will.”

 

Once the call is disconnected, Steve sets his phone aside and grabs the bottle of wine instead. Screw dinner. He just needs to curl up in his Bucky-less bed and cry for a bit.

 

* * *

 

_ It’s a Friday evening, and Bucky’s going to come in through their apartment door any minute now, having been away all day on some kind of business he refuses to tell Steve about. Steve’s not naive to think that it doesn’t have anything to do with today’s occasion; today’s their six-month anniversary. Exactly half a year ago to this day - well, really the day before, Steve met Bucky and Natasha in a bar, and then Bucky asked him out for a drink. _

 

_ Steve’s eyes haven’t strayed from the door in almost an hour, adrenaline thrumming through his veins as he places the finishing touches on dinner. He grates just some more parmesan on his pasta and a mountain-load on Bucky’s - the man loves cheese, chocolate, and carbs; what can Steve do but indulge him? - and checks the candles placed between the plates to check them from burning out. Finally, he turns the  _ very  _ expensive bottle of wine that he stole from a cellar of a mansion in Italy until the label faces away from him. _

 

_ He needs everything to be perfect.  _ Fuck _ , he hasn’t been this besotted with someone for so long. For the first three months, their relationship was causal - well, as casual as it can be for two con men/art thieves who are always in close proximity. Then about a month-and-a-half ago, Steve began feeling this aching warmth in his chest that he could only identify as one thing: love _ .  _ He’s never really loved someone before. He thought he could love Peggy, but their relationship petered out quickly; they were both too hot-headed and often clashed with each other.  _ Fuck.

 

_ After what seems ages of waiting - okay, like ten more minutes, Bucky finally wobbles through the front door, trying to juggle his satchel and cell phone, all while trying to take off his coat. He looks  _ so  _ good in his navy suit with the red tie loosened slightly around his neck that Steve wants to drag his boyfriend off to bed, but Steve is also a determined man who spent four hours cooking dinner, so he doesn’t. _

 

_ Finally, Bucky manages to struggle out of his coat, and he drops his satchel on a barstool and his phone on the kitchen counter before glancing up and taking in their heavily-arranged dining table. “Fuck.” His eyes widen. “Steve, you’re a fucking saint. I can’t believe.. How did you pull all this off?” _

 

_ Steve shrugs. “You were gone for the entire day.” He bites his lip to hide his smile, secretly pleased that Bucky seems to like the surprise. _

 

_ Bucky sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Steve. You had to one-up me.” He sighs again. “I bought you a watch. A really nice watch. Really expensive too. But it’s not the same as a home-cooked meal you slaved over all day.” _

 

_ He’s getting all adorably flustered now, cheeks pinkening and tugging at his hair in frustration until it’s become a mussed mess of curls, that Steve can’t help it. “I love you,” he blurts out. _

 

_ The effect of his words on Bucky is instantaneous. _

_ “ _ Oh, fuck _.” Bucky pales considerably. His eyes become wide but with panic now. His expression is tight, pained, and rueful. “Tell me you don’t really mean that,” he pleads. _

 

_ There’s a flurry of painful emotions in Steve’s chest battling for dominance now. Hurt is the predominant one, his heart constricting as if caught in a vice.  _ Does Bucky not love him back _? Knowing that is a possibility is more painful than anything Steve could have imagine. “I do,” he replies in a breathless voice lower than a murmur, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. He feels like he did when he was still small and sickly, before his mom’s boss Doctor Erskine set him on a rigorous diet, exercise, and medication regimen when he was fourteen, with the world watching him with deriding eyes and willing him defeat.  _

 

_ “I love you too,” Bucky begins slowly, his eyes appearing less like storms and more like watery pools now that the color has drained from his face, and Steve’s heart soars, but there has to be something else. Otherwise, Bucky wouldn’t look like he’s being forced to rip out his own heart. “I love you too,” Bucky repeats, “but you need to know. I wasn’t jobless when you met me. My name is Agent James Barnes. I’m with the FBI, and I was assigned undercover to bring you and your crew down.” _

 

_ Steve stumbles backwards, forcing his expression to shutter even as the pain threatens to overwhelm him. Then he turns sharply on his heel and storms out of the apartment, the door slamming shut in his wake. _

 

* * *

 

On a Wednesday morning, Steve rolls out of bed, showers, dresses in the most expensive suit he can find in one of his safehouses, and takes an Uber to SHIELD, Alexander Pierce’s gallery. He smooths his hair down and enters the gallery; he strides easily and confidently through the security check until he is in the main room. 

 

Pierce’s gallery consists of an eclectic mix of modern portraits and bright colors but also traditional classical art and sculptures. At the center of the main room, the so-called crown jewel of Pierce’s collection, is a very familiar Raphael:  **“** St. George and the Dragon.”

 

Glowering, Steve approaches it carefully, moving closer until he is mere inches away from the bullet-proof glass. He lifts his hand almost to trace the familiar strokes of the painting that he remembers going over with a paintbrush. He is so near, his breath could fog the glass.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the security guard - the same guard who  _ so obviously  _ took notice of him when Steve first walked in - turn his head towards his shoulder. He’s likely whispering into his radio to alert his colleagues. Steve smirks.

 

Steve’s gazing at a small painting, admiring the artist’s use of alternating dull and bright colors, when he is suddenly flanked by two security guards trying their hardest to act discreet. He senses a presence at his back and slowly turns around to face Pierce.

 

Compared to the photograph Steve showed Natasha, Sharon, and Sam, Alexander Pierce hasn’t aged much. He’s in a suit almost as nice as Steve’s with just a few more crinkles around his eyes; the cufflinks that pin his sleeves look much more expensive than anything else on Pierce’s person, including his Rolex, and Steve gets the sense that he didn’t acquire them very legally. When Pierce’s eyes meet Steve’s, he smiles smarmily, and a shiver of disgust runs down Steve’s spine.

 

“Mr. Rogers,” Pierce says congenially, dipping his head, sounding as if they’re two individuals taking a nice walk outside. “It’s lovely to see you.” He pauses. “May I ask the purpose of your visit?”

 

“Mr. Pierce,” Steve says, matching him in tone, “what do I owe  _ your _ personal greeting to?” He gestures around himself. “Can a gentleman not admire the works in a gallery without being hounded?”

“Take no offense to this,” Pierce begins with a snake-like smile, “but when one is a former convict arrested on charges of art theft and bond forgery such as yourself, one cannot. My guards clocked you the moment you walked through the door.”

 

“Those were charges you ruled on,” Steve reminds him, “but I understand.” 

 

Pierce nods. “As a result, you pose a risk, and since I am not intentionally destructive towards my property, I would have to ask you not to pose a scene as my guards escort you outside. Please never return to SHIELD.”

 

In return, Steve whistles. “I wish you had never asked that. I guess now I’ll have to find some other way to admire these works.” He purposely emphasizes his words, watching an angry spark light in Pierce’s eyes. Although Steve spreads his arms, gesturing especially towards the sculptures arranged in the corner of the room, his eyes remain fixed on the Raphael.

 

His expression hardening, Pierce nods once again towards his guards. “Gentlemen, please escort Mr. Rogers outside, and make sure he heads far away from the gallery.” Without sparing Steve another look, Pierce strides away with authority.

 

The two security guards exchange looks before their gazes fall on Steve, and he shrugs. “Well, you heard the man. But mind the force. I’ll come of my own free will.” They must think him insane for being so blase about this, but Steve doesn’t give a flying fuck as they crowd him, forcing him towards the exit; his objective here has been completed.

 

As Steve moves towards the door, still squeezed between the guards, his gaze chancely falls back inside the gallery and on an unexpected site:  _ Bucky _ .

 

James  _ fucking  _ Buchanan Barnes stands stone-still in one corner of the room, eyes flickering around like he’s on watch, handsome in a sleek suit with his hair shorter than Steve’s ever seen it but with deep dark circles under his hollow eyes, and Steve’s heart seizes painfully in his chest. This entire time Steve’s been searching for him, and he’s been here in the lion’s den.

 

Their eyes meet, gazes colliding, and shock spreads through Bucky’s sharp features, ripples through water, but there is barely a moment for Steve’s mind to register it. He stills for just a moment, and the guards shove him towards the door.

 

Jerking forward, Steve manages one last glance back. Bucky’s eyes are fixed on him, but his lips are moving. Steve doesn’t understand.

 

He’s mouthing something at him. Steve stares for a moment.

 

_ ‘Til the end of the line _ , Bucky mouths at him again.  _ ‘Til the end of the line _ .

 

‘ _ Til the end of the line  _ is their way of saying  _ I’m safe, I’m fine, I love you _ . Steve doesn’t know what’s going on, but as the guards succeed in shoving Steve out the door, Bucky is attempting to assure him that he’s okay.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reeling from the reappearance of Bucky, Steve confronts Natasha. He later pays Coulson another visit.

Shaking with fury, Steve bursts through the warehouse entrance with enough force that the door is flung into the wall, scraping the cement of the floor. He stalks towards Natasha, and when he finally towers over her, talking and menacing, she doesn’t even bat an eyelash, her gaze lazily travelling to his face. It only angers him further. 

 

“Did you know?” he asks, words cold and brittle. His jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching his teeth.

 

Natasha doesn’t reply, only blankly meeting his stare.

 

“ _ Did you know _ ?” Steve’s words rise in volume and pitch. He crosses his arms against his chest. Sam and Sharon are staring at him in alarm, and Sam starts towards him, but Steve doesn’t care. Nothing matters right now, not when he’s found Bucky. 

 

“Did I know what?” Natasha drawls in reply in a completely Natasha-like manner.

 

“ _ Did you know that Bucky was working for Pierce _ ?”

 

The effect of his words is instantaneous; Natasha takes a staggering step backwards, paling, jaw going slack. Her eyes widen with shock. 

 

Steve’s anger rapidly deflates. Natasha  _ didn’t _ know. Guilt turns the contents of his stomach sour. He’d just stormed in here and accused Natasha like she was the enemy.

 

“ _ Where did you see him _ ?” Her words are hissed and are deadly serious.

 

Dropping his shoulders, Steve steps back from Natasha. “I saw him at Pierce’s gallery,” he admits helplessly. In the background, he thinks he hears Sam curse. 

 

“I didn’t know,” Natasha murmurs, more to herself than to anyone really. Besides her, Sharon steps up to slide a supportive arm around her waist. “ _ I didn’t know _ .” Natasha leans into Sharon, but she glances up, gaze sharp and focused on Steve. “Listen to me, Rogers. When I told you that I didn’t where he was, that was true. But when I told you that he was safe, that was only because he assured me himself.” She pauses. “I haven’t seen him since you were both arrested, but a few years ago, I received a postcard. It was from him. He spent me a few more since then with only sparse messages.” She quiets, looking haunted, and Sharon rubs her shoulders gently. “ _ I didn’t know _ .”

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Steve says, dragging a hand across his tired face. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Natasha. I fucked up.”

 

“ _ Yes, you did _ .”

 

Sam steps forward, arms tightened across his chest, and he does not look pleased. “You fucked  _ everything up _ , Steve. How could you be so stupid?” he cries, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “You practically ran to Pierce and handed him our plan on a silver platter.” Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Sam forges on. “What were you thinking, white boy? What, oh, you - a convicted art thief - go to Pierce’s gallery, and two weeks later, his place gets hit? Oh, I wonder who the thief could be?” He storms towards Steve, jabbing him in the chest with his finger with each word. “ _ They. Are. Going. To. Know. That. It. Was. You. _ ” He pauses, breathing heavily, and then stabs Steve one last time for emphasis. “ _ Idiot! _ ”

 

Sharon is frowning now.

 

“ _ Oh _ ,” Steve complains, rubbing his sore pecs. “Calm down, Sammy. I promise I wasn’t that stupid.”

 

“ _ Are you sure _ ?” Sam hisses. “Prison drove you out of control. You came in here screaming at Nat; she’s like a fucking sister to you. At least Barnes kept you in check, but now, he’s a trigger for your rage.”

 

“Sam,” Steve says helplessly. “Sam. Listen, please.” Perhaps, he should have explained his plan to them beforehand. “It was always part of my plan, going to Pierce’s gallery. I spooked him. He’s not going to keep the art there anymore. He’s going to move it, probably to his penthouse in the Triskelion where he feels the most secure. That’s only going to make it easier to steal.”

 

Sam sighs. “That’s just you thinking that you’ll be lucky.” His anger is slowly dissipating. “What else was part of your  _ plan _ ?”

 

Steve turns to address Natasha and Sharon. “Pierce is going to alert the FBI now. He has to; it’s only logical. That puts me in contact with Coulson without it being too suspicious. Plus, now, all the attention is on me. They won’t be expecting you guys.”

 

There’s a thin smile on Natasha’s lips, and Sharon’s nodding reluctantly. “I hate to admit it,” she says, “but that makes sense.”

 

Steve attempts a smile, turning to Sam. “Sammy? What do you think?”

 

Still glaring at him, Sam knits his eyebrows together. He hums. “Fine. But from now on, you tell us everything.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

* * *

 

“Rogers,” Coulson says sternly as he steps in front of the only entrance to the alleyway Steve’s standing in. The agent slips his sunglasses off, sliding them into an inside pocket of his suit jacket; it’s a move that’s also strategically timed to show off the gun tucked into Coulson’s shoulder holster. 

 

As if Steve would run. He’s been anticipating Coulson for days; in fact, he’d taken to loitering around some of his favorite restaurants and stores that he knows Coulson has noted down in his file. He just didn’t think it would take the agent so long. “You’re getting older,” Steve notes with a tad bit of irony, nodding to Coulson. “You used to be able to find me more easily.”

 

“I used to have the help of one of the best agents in the FBI,” Coulson replies, tone dry, eyes barely even twitching. “But he retired.” He pauses. “Why were you at Alexander Pierce’s gallery, Rogers? What are you planning?”

 

“Can’t a man just look at art?” Steve asks, nonchalant. He shrugs and plasters on a smile, which becomes genuine when Coulson finally bites his lip in irritation. That’s what annoyed Steve when he first learned about Phil Coulson; he tries so hard to be just another suit, but deep down, he’s a man with morals similar to Steve and an intense sense of good - which Steve can’t necessarily claim to have, but he always tries to keep his crimes victimless. That’s why Steve admires him but also finds it so fun to force cracks in Coulson’s professional demeanor. “One artist admiring another artist’s work?”

 

Coulson rolls his eyes. “You’re an art forger, not an artist. Maybe if you’d actually finished your degree at Pratt instead of turning to crime.” He crosses his arms against his chest. “Pierce suspects you, but you already know that by now.”

 

“I’m innocent.”

 

“I’m sure.” 

 

Running a hand through his hair, Steve hides his chuckle. “I’m innocent,” he repeats, and here, his demeanor and tone grows sober enough that Coulson straightens up, “but Pierce is not.”

 

Sighing, Coulson drums his fingers against his thigh. “And what allegations do you have against the federal judge Alexander Pierce?”

 

“Bucky’s working for him,” Steve replies quietly. “But not willingly.”

 

One of Coulson’s eyebrows raises in skepticism, and he frowns, staring at Steve like Steve’s a hard puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “You’re sure?”

 

“I know Bucky,” Steve says, “and you know Bucky. Why would he work with the judge who put him away in prison?”

 

The agent’s frown deepens. “You’re right. That doesn’t sound like Barnes.” He sighs. “I might look into it. No promises.” His expression flickers when he catches sight of Steve’s slight smile. “But stay away from Pierce, or the next time I see you, I’ll arrest you.”

 

“The next  _ official _ time, you mean,” Steve corrects, tone playful.

 

“No.” Coulson’s eyes go dark as he slips his sunglasses back on. “The next time.” As he turns around to leave, he glances back over his shoulder one last time. “And leave Daisy alone. Let her build a good, legal life now with the skills she has.”

 

Steve’s brows furrow. Coulson’s words are stern and protective, seeming like he has come to care for their mutual hacker friend. If he has indeed, Steve is glad. Daisy is still young; she could always use guidance. 

 

As Coulson finally disappears, Steve’s phone buzzes. It’s one of the many burner phones he carries on him; there’s a message from Natasha.

 

_ You were right. I cased the Triskelion. Pierce moved the art _ .

 


	7. Chapter Sixth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky reunites with Steve.

_ Caution and fear strikes Bucky’s stomach as he approaches the visitation room, stumbling to halt before the doorway. He hasn’t had a visitor in the entire year that he’s been here, and now, he’s apprehensive to find out who it could be. Not Natasha; she has enough common sense not to. Sam’s only called a few times. Steve? Steve is out of the question; they’re separated, with millions of miles and several states between them.  _

 

_ “Get moving,” the prison guard barks at him, and Bucky startles like a shock’s been run through him, shuffling his feet forward. He doesn’t want to earn the guard’s ire. Prison violence can be severe, and as a white, cisgender man who could pass for straight, he knows that he’s not the guards’ typical target. But they know he’s a former FBI agent, and they don’t take kindly to that. Bucky’s fellow prisoners know that too; word spreads quickly around here. So it always feel like the guards and the prisoners are biding their time now, waiting for either side to take the first crack at him. Bucky feels hunted, with no one to watch his back.  _

 

_ He hates it. _

 

_ When he finally stumbles inside and another guard checks him in, he’s surprised when he’s directed not to a stall with dividers but to a private room off to the side. Inside is only a table with chairs on opposing sides and two doors, the one Bucky entered from and one presumably for the visitor. The guard behind Bucky waits - not entirely patiently - for Bucky to take his seat on one end of the table before shackling both of Bucky’s wrists to the manacles embedded in the table. The guard then leaves, the door locking behind him with a loud buzz, and then there’s a beep as the other door unlocks. Curiously enough, the red blinking light on the camera in the corner of the room dims; the camera’s been turned off. The contents of Bucky’s stomach curdle, but before his mind can begin a particularly dark train of thought, his visitor enters. _

 

_ “Mr. Barnes,” says federal judge Alexander Pierce as he takes a seat opposite Bucky. “You look well.” _

 

_ So bewildered by the judge’s presence, Bucky doesn’t understand whether Pierce’s comment is a compliment or dig; the last time they saw each other, Bucky’s head hadn’t been shaved and he had been wearing a lovely navy suit as Pierce had brought his gavel down, sealing Steve and Bucky’s fates in the hushed courtroom. “What are you doing here, Pierce?”  _

 

_ Something indecipherable flickers through Pierce’s eyes. “I’m here to offer you a deal, Mr. Barnes.” _

 

_ “What kind of deal?” Bucky’s words, though spoken rapidly, aren’t desperate; they’re challenging and suspicious as he leans forward, elbows propped on the table.  _

 

_ “I can have your sentence reduced considerably,” Pierce says, eyes gleaming, lips set in a thin line. “You could be released within a month.” _

 

_ “What would be cost me? What’s the catch?” Bucky keeps his expression composed.  _

 

_ “Why does there have to be a catch?” Pierce asks amusedly. _

 

_ “You’re the federal judge who sentenced me,” Bucky shoots back. “I doubt you want me running back out there in the world.” He narrows his eyes. “Besides, you’re forgetting that I’m a former FBI agent. I know how this works.” _

 

_ Pierce affects a kind expression that makes him look more like someone’s grandfather than a politician. “I didn’t forget, Mr. Barnes, but I imagine that your fellow prisoners don’t take kindly to your former profession.” _

 

_ Bucky fails to keep him from bristling, and judging by Pierce’s satisfied smile, he certainly noticed. Pierce leans forward. “I can get you out, Mr. Barnes, and it will only cost you a favor.” His smile grows. “What do you say?” _

 

_ Everything in Bucky screams to tell Pierce no, but then the ugly survival streak forged in foster homes and strengthened by Quantico rears its head. It’s the same sense that caused him to jump headfirst and grab something if it gave him even the slightest bit of happiness - the FBI, Steve, art theft. He can’t ignore it. He needs to get out of here; he can’t keep living every day in fear that today is the day that someone -  a guard or a prisoner - will run out of patience and strike. He can’t. _

 

_ “Yes.” _

 

* * *

 

Bucky perches on the fire escape outside the Queens loft, using the shadows of the night of his cover. He peers inside, heart twinging as he watches Steve in the kitchen, slowly stirring a pan on stove with a wooden spoon, making a lonely dinner for one. After several minutes, Bucky can’t bear  it anymore; it’s the second time his weary eyes have laid themselves on Steve, and he drinks the sight in like a thirsty man in the desert. Still, it pains him to see his Steve going through the motions of the domestic life they used to share. Slowly, he reaches over and knocks softly on the window.

 

Turning in alarm, Steve faces the window, eyes landing on Bucky, and he stumbles back for a moment, hand fumbling towards the stove to turn the burner off. Cautiously, he approaches the window and slides it open, angling his body away as Bucky slips through the window like a cat.

 

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky says, shaking the soreness from his limbs. He was kneeling outside for a while, and his body will feel the impact later; he’s not that young anymore. 

 

“Buck.” Steve nods. “Take a seat. Food will be done in ten.”

 

Ten minutes later, Steve’s plated their dinner and taken a seat across from Bucky at the dining table. He forks a biteful of chicken and sauce before abruptly asking, “What does Pierce want with you? How does he have you?”

 

Bucky inhales sharply, setting his fork down. He expect this line of questioning and is grateful he managed to take a few bites of Steve’s delicious cooking before it. “I’m his fixer. He calls me the Winter Soldier. Makes me clean up his messes.”

 

“What kind?”

 

“Whatever you could think of.” Bucky shrugs. “Pierce has his hands in everything. Murder, intimidation, robberies, etc. Dirtiest federal judge I’ve ever seen.”

 

Something ugly flickers across Steve’s face. “And you can’t turn him in?” When Bucky shakes his head, Steve purses his lips. “What does he have on you?”

 

“Enough,” Bucky replies, tone soft. “Proof of many of our heists and cons the FBI couldn’t pin on us and other stuff. And if it’s not severe enough, he can make more. He could use what he’s making me do and worse.”

 

“He has you under his thumb,” Steve concludes, expression dismayed. “ _ Fuck. _ I’m so sorry, Buck. This is all-”

 

“ _ None of it _ ,” Bucky says sternly, cutting Steve off, “is your fault. Nor is it all circumstance. Pierce is clever. He plotted this out. You were a pest in his side, so he took you out. Rumlow and Rollins were his. He’s been planning this for years, enough for us to trust them so that they could betray us. After that, he came to me, because he knew he could control me.”

 

Steve hisses and buries his head in his hands.

 

“ _ Whatever _ you’re planning,” Bucky begins, voice wavering because he knows that there’s no stopping Steve Rogers, not when he gets his mind set on something, “I can’t help you.” He hesitates. “You can’t win either. Pierce will find a way to make you lose, and this won’t be something you can come back from, Stevie. Pierce is a dangerous man, and his crimes, unlike yours, aren’t victimless. If you cross him and if you lose, you will end up  _ dead _ .” Here, Bucky’s voice cracks, thick with emotion, and he knows Steve hears it. “I came here to warn you. Please, Steve, just give up. Whatever you’re in this for, it’s not worth it.”

 

Finally, Steve glances up, hair a ruffled mess, and his eyes are red-rimmed. When he speaks, his voice is unexpectedly hoarse. “I can’t step back, Buck. Not when I know that so much is at stake. All of this? It’s worth it for you. I’m doing all of this for you.”

 

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to give up,” Bucky replies sadly. His heart feels like it’s in a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter by the second. He can feel the sharp burn of fresh tears at the corners of his eyes, but he can’t let them fall; he needs to stay strong. “At least I tried.” He sighs, and as he speaks again, his words are rushed and breathless. “I love you, Steve Rogers, and I want to see you alive and happy, even if it’s without me by your side.” He squeezes his eyes shut, brushing a hand across his face, but a few tears still leak out, leaving faint trails of dampness down his cheeks. “I don’t think Pierce ever has plans to let me go, and at this rate, sooner or later, I’ll be dead.” He doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes. “See it that the same thing doesn’t happen to you.” He sniffles once as he heads back towards the window.

 

“ _ Bucky _ !” 

 

He hears Steve’s call for him but ignores it, slipping through the window and back into the velvety blanket of the night. He waits until he’s several rooftops away until he finally breaks apart.

 

* * *

 

 

_ “Thanks for coming to meet me, Buck,” Steve says tiredly as he opens the door and steps aside, allowing Bucky to enter their apartment, and Bucky notes Steve’s use of his nickname despite still being mad at Bucky.  _

 

_ Bucky nods, unsure of how to reply. It’s been three weeks since Steve stormed off on their anniversary - to be fair, Bucky would have too if Steve had confessed to being an undercover FBI agent, and Bucky’s done his fair share to make it up, including apology notes and an unreasonable chunk of money spent on flowers and gifts. He knows that money can’t buy forgiveness, but it’s  _ literally  _ the only thing he can do when he’s already ruined their relationship. The ball’s in Steve’s court now. _

 

Still,  _ James Buchanan Barnes is not a quitter, so he tries one more time. “I’m sorry,” he begins. “I-” _

 

_ “Save it, Buck,” Steve says as he wanders further into their living room, Bucky following, and takes a seat on the elaborate French-inspired couch that Bucky found in a flea market for a pretty penny. As Bucky’s mouth dries at Steve’s words and tone, Steve continues on, “It took me a while, but I’ve already forgiven you.” _

 

_ “What?” Bucky whispers, stumbling forward. He just wants to wrap his arms around Steve, but now is not the right moment, especially with the current fragile state of their relationship. _

 

_ “I love you,” Steve states. _

 

_ “I love you too,” Bucky echoes, finally able to voice the truth he’s been feeling for weeks now. _

 

_ Steve’s eyes soften. “Good. Then you just have to make the choice. You can either have me and our relationship or stay with the FBI.” His lips press together in a firm line. “What do you choose?” _

 

_ He probably means for this to be some kind of dichotomy for Bucky, a dilemma that will fundamentally change his life, but Bucky’s already got his decision made. He has for weeks, even before Steve presented him these choices. He’s not going to lose happiness when it’s finally within his grasp. _

 

_ “I choose you.” _ _ _


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and his team stake out Pierce's property.

Phil Coulson glances up at the Triskelion, a tower of sleek white stone and glass with its penthouse as the crown jewel of all of Alexander Pierce’s properties, and settles his lips in a thin line, crossing the street. As he reaches the inconspicuous van advertising a painting business, he wanders around to the back doors of the van, glancing both ways before knocking.

 

The doors are opened, and Phil swiftly pulls himself into the van as the doors are shut behind him. He casts an appraising glimpse around the interior. His agents are at seated before the surveillance screens, and there are coffee cups and fast food trash bags littered everywhere, familiar signs of a stakeout.

 

“Sir,” Mack says, nodding in greeting towards Phil. He reclines back in his desk chair, legs draped over the table. 

 

“Agent Mackenzie,” Phil replies. “How’s it going?”

 

Piper, curled up in her own chair like a cat, huffs. “Nothing’s happening,” she complains. “Nothing’s happened for the two weeks we’ve been watching this building.” She stretches her limbs, shaking the soreness out. “Why is Rogers even this big of a deal?”

 

Phil smiles amusedly, taking a seat between Piper and Mack. He crosses his legs and settles his hands in his lap, turning to Piper. “Have you ever heard of the Smithsonian break-in from a few years ago?” She nods, looking bewildered, and Phil continues, “That...was Rogers.”

 

* * *

 

_ “Coulson,” Fury calls as he stalks to his office, leather trench coat billowing behind him dramatically. “My office. Now.” _

 

_ Lifting his gaze from the paperwork he’s neatly filling out, Phil sighs and slots the papers into a pile in a corner of his desk. He rises to his feet and shuffles to Fury’s office, knocking on the door before poking his head inside. “Sir?” _

 

_ “There was a break-in at the SSR Gallery in lower Manhattan,” Fury tells him without glancing up from his desktop computer. “I want you on it. I don’t think you’ll need to take any agents.” _

 

_ Roughly an hour later, Phil finds himself at the high-end SSR Gallery, nestled in a busy block of designer and luxury stores. “Walk me through the break-in,” he orders the gallery director as they walk inside the gallery. _

 

_ The director nods. “The thief entered through the back entrance the employees often use. They knew enough to avoid the camera blind spots. Once inside, they managed to access and bring down the security system without tripping the alarm. There’s a ten minute blackout in the cameras; that’s the only way we know there was a break-in.” _

 

_ “The only way?” Phil asks, lifting a questioning eyebrow as they approach the main room of the gallery. _

 

_ “Well,” the director says helplessly as they finally enter the room. “The thief didn’t take anything.” _

 

Huh.  _ “That is curious,” Phil murmurs as he takes in the exhibit, every painting still in place. _

 

_ He stands in that room for what seems like hours, walking every inch of the room until he feels like he will see it in his sleep. He stares at the paintings until there’s nothing left to see. It’s only a matter of chance that after a while, his eyes start to droop, straying to the bottom of a painting, towards the edge of the frame.  _

 

_ His eyes fly wide open, and he begins to chuckle.  _

 

_ The gallery director scurries over in confusion. “Is there anything wrong, Agent Coulson?” When Phil doesn’t reply, his gaze follows Phil’s finger to the signature scribbled on the canvas:  _ SGR.

 

_ “It didn’t look like your thief took anything, because he replaced them,” Phil says, turning to the director “These are all forgeries.” _

 

* * *

 

“Fury and I spent three years chasing this mysterious thief across this continent and even parts of Europe. We knew them as SGR, based on their signature on the forgeries, but we couldn’t catch them or figure out their real identity,” Coulson explains. 

 

By now, Piper is leaning in her chair, and even Mack has turned around interestedly. “Until what?” he asks, eyes glinting.

 

“Until they got clumsy.” Phil smirks. 

 

* * *

 

_ “We’ve found a partial print, Sir,” a FBI forensics tech calls out, holding a brush over part of a painting frame as he kneels beside it. _

 

_ “Finally,” Fury growls, arms crossed across his chest. “Run a scan through the database back at the office.” He turns to Phil. “Bring me the results when there’s a match.” _

 

_ Several hours later, Phil knocks on the door of Fury’s office - temporarily his while they’re n Chicago investigating the latest heist. “I’ve got a match, Sir,” he says, poking his head inside, a thin file in hand. _

 

_ Fury sets aside the stack of paperwork he was glancing over and looks up. “Show me, Coulson.” Phil hands him the file, opening it up to a simple piece of paper: a profile on someone. Fury glances down at the picture - a young, skinny blond boy with sharp features and brilliant blue eyes.  _

 

_ “Steven Grant Rogers,” Phil explains. “Originally from Brooklyn, New York. Raised by a single mother Sarah Rogers. Father died before he was born. Orphaned at age sixteen. Notably an art prodigy. Attended the Pratt Institute for two years before dropping out. There’s no trace of him since.” _

 

_ Fury’s gaze becomes assessing. “Any criminal record?” _

 

_ Phil shakes his head. “Only one arrest. Punched a cop at an environmental protest at age sixteen, just a few months before his mother Sarah died unexpectedly from a cancer relapse.” _

 

_ “Well,” Fury says, “we’ve found our mystery thief.” He pauses. “Put all your resources towards finding him.” _

 

* * *

 

“That’s an interesting story, Sir,” Piper says, lips curving into a slight smile, “but Rogers hasn’t been seen at or around the building. Why are we still watching it?”

 

Sighing, Phil shakes his head. “Never satisfied are you, Agent Piper?” He hesitates. “To answer your question, we’re here more to keep an eye on Alexander Pierce.” When Piper and Mack’s expressions become bewildered and shocked, Phil shakes his head again. “Don’t ask why. I’m afraid that’s currently classified.” He pauses. “Do you remember who held the all-time marksmanship score when you attended Quantico?”

 

Piper ruminates on that for a moment. “As far as I can remember, it’s some guy named James Barnes.”

 

“Ditto,” Mack adds.

 

“James Barnes,” Phil repeats and then sighs. “He was one of my best.”

 

* * *

 

_ Phil observes James Barnes as they approach Fury’s office. Agent Barnes doesn’t appear unassuming - Phil saw some of his younger agents swoon as Barnes passed by, but he certainly doesn’t resemble the legend the FBI’s been making out of him. Whip-smart. An excellent marksman, with the record to prove it. Top of his class at Quantico. Graduated almost a full year early. His youth doesn’t betray his accomplishments; James Barnes is quickly becoming one of the FBI’s best agents. _

 

_ And that is exactly what Fury first notes upon meeting Barnes in person. “Barnes,” he says to which Barnes quickly interrupts with a _ Please call me James, Sir. _ “Barnes,” Fury repeats, tone insistent. “You’re a rising star over in the Cyber Crimes Unit, but some of the higher-ups and I believe that your talent is being wasted. We want you over here in the White Collar Division.” _

 

_ “That’s flattering, Sir,” Barnes begins, ducking his head. He appears to be quite humble about his abilities. _

 

_ “That wasn’t a request,” Fury tells him. Only Phil who’s been working under him for close to a decade can detect the slight amusement in his tone while Barnes, to his credit, flinches only slightly. It’s quite impressive of Barnes, and Phil acknowledges and admires that; Fury is one of the most intimidating sons of bitches Phil has ever seen. It bodes well for Barnes if he can hold his ground. “You’re being transferred, Agent Barnes. You even have your first assignment.” He tosses a file at Barnes who barely manages to catch it. _

 

_ Phil watches as Barnes flips through it in bewilderment. Since his identification as the thief a few years ago, Steve Rogers’ file has grown extensively, though most of it is background information related to his heists and cons. The FBI only has two real pictures of Rogers: the original one from his teenage arrest and a shaky security camera picture of Rogers from a year ago. In this new shot, he’s saluting the camera with a smirk. Phil had bristled with irritation when he had first seen the picture, but a spark of interest lights in Barnes’ eyes when he lays eyes on it. _

 

_ “He’s in Brooklyn right now,” Phil explains, stepping forward. “You’ll need to get in with his crew. Work with our tech team to craft you a cover.” _

 

_ “Actually,” Barnes begins, glancing up to find both Phil and Fury’s gazes fixed on him expectantly. “I might have a way in.” After Phil motions for him to go one, Barnes passes the file back. “I grew up in the foster system. My foster sister Natasha and I dabbled in petty theft and shoplifting for a bit,” he explains a bit ashamedly. “She might have never grown out of it. I might be able to use her to get an in.” _

 

_ “Good,” Fury says, single eye narrowing. “Let’s get this bastard for good.” _

 

* * *

 

“And then what happened?” Piper asks breathlessly. She and Mack are literally leaning forward in their chairs, hooked onto Phil’s tale. “Barnes went undercover. Did he lead to Rogers’ arrest?”

 

“Wasn’t that almost two years later?” a bewildered Mack asks, still occasionally glancing up at the monitor. 

 

Phil nods. “You’re right, Agent Mackenzie.” He narrows his eyes. “Rogers was Barnes’ downfall.”

 

Piper’s expression becomes almost understanding. “You don’t mean…?”

 

“I do.” Phil smiles, though Mack still looks confused. “Barnes fell in love with Rogers and Rogers with Barnes. Barnes betrayed the FBI and joined Rogers’ crew for good.”

 

Mack whistles. “That’s one fucking twist.”

 

“So Barnes was arrested too?” Piper asks.

 

Phil sighs. “Wasn’t a good day for me. I liked Barnes, but he chose the wrong side. It took two years, but a member of their crew ratted them out, and we moved on them. Pierce sentenced them to prisons on opposite coasts.” He shakes his head. “The only problem is that Rogers was the only one who stayed.”

 

“Are you saying that Barnes broke out, Sir?” asks Mack.

 

“No.” Phil glances down. “Someone broke him out. All I know is that Pierce visited Barnes in prison one day, and a month later, Barnes’ sentence is cut short for ‘good behavior.’ Then he disappears.”

 

“So Barnes cut a deal,” Piper surmises. “Lucky him.”

 

“No,” Coulson repeats, shaking his head. “Something else happened. I knew Agent Barnes, and for all he did, he was a damn good agent and a damn good man. There’s something else at play here, and Pierce is in the thick of it.”


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharon discovers a flaw in the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday! One week of this fic left!

“Can you brew me a cup of tea, dearie?” Karen asks Sharon as she rolls over in her wheelchair, her faint Irish brogue tinging her words with a sort of musicality. 

 

“Of course, ma’am,” Sharon says, nodding. She shuffles towards the kitchen, her scrubs squeaking across the marble tiles. Filling the kettle up with water, she sets it on the stove, turning the burner on, before shuffling through the various types of tea bags in the cupboard. She chooses a bag that Karen has previously liked, placing it in a mug. The kettle whistles sharply, releasing a sudden stream of steam, and Sharon turns, pouring the water in the cup. She adds a splash of milk and then opens a drawer with a screech only to find the sugar jar missing. “Ms. Byrne?” She returns to the living room to face Karen who has wheeled herself to look out at the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “You’re out of sugar. What should I do? Should I head to the store?”

 

Karen turns to face Sharon. “That’s alright, Kate. Why don’t you go over to Mr. Pierce’s penthouse and borrow some? His housekeeper Renata is nice; she won’t mind.”

 

“Thank you, Ms. Byrne,” Sharon replies with a cheery smile. As she heads to the front door of the luxury apartment, she uncoils her bun, shaking her golden waves out and slipping the hair tie on her wrist. Her smile transforms into a smirk.

 

Everything is going according to plan.

 

Sharon has been undercover as Kate, the nurse of Karen Byrne, a retired Irish actress, for several weeks now, and it’s been slow-going. Ms. Byrne is sweet and doesn’t demand much, but when Sharon agreed to participate in Steve’s heist, she thought it would be a little more action-packed. And she hasn’t seen her girlfriend in a week; she’s starting to miss Nat. 

 

But finally, her cover is starting to pay off. If the FBI or anyone is watching, they’ll just see her as a nice nurse borrowing sugar from a nice neighbor’s housekeeper. It doesn’t matter that Sharon purposely hid the sugar as an excuse to gain access to Alexander Pierce’s penthouse.  

 

As she makes her way to the elevator, Sharon fiddles with the hair tie around her wrist, ducking her head forward to allow her hair to fall in her face. Sure, it’s a fairly useless idea to try and mask her identity from any cameras that might be in the hallway since she’s already spent so long undercover with her actual appearance, but her aunt Peggy still trained her to be cautious.

The elevator ride is smooth and quick, and the doors open right up into another elevator bank but with only one elevator. It seems that Pierce is paranoid enough about his own security that he would have two separate elevators, one with severe security advancements, besides owning the building. When Sharon approaches the smaller elevator, she rings a doorbell set off to the side. A red light above the elevator panel begins to blink, indicating that a camera has turned on. There’s a soft buzz, and a voice echoes from the speaker panel, “Who is it?”

 

Sharon affects her most disarming smile, waving slightly at the camera. “Hi! It’s Kate. I’m Ms. Byrne’s nurse? I was hoping to borrow some sugar.”

 

There’s another buzz, and the red light blinks off. Silently, the elevator doors slide open, and with a shrug, Sharon steps on, the doors shutting behind her. The elevator rises quickly, and when the doors slide open again, Sharon steps off into a lavish penthouse with high ceilings and glass everywhere.

 

Renata, Pierce’s housekeeper, is an unassuming woman with light hair and stern eyes in a button-down and a cardigan with an apron tied around her waist. “What did you ask for?” she asks with a faint Eastern European accent that Sharon can’t really identify.

 

“Sugar,” Sharon replies, smiling again. “I was making Ms. Byrne tea but forgot that I finished off the sugar and didn’t remember to replace it.”

 

Renata fixes Sharon with an assessing stare. “Stay right here.” She turns on her  heel and retreats further into the penthouse.

 

Under the pretext of examining the living room, Sharon paces every inch of the room that she can before Renata returns, but the collection is not clearly here. Quickly, she slides her phone out and texts Sam,  _ Distraction now _ . 

 

Renata finally returns, handing Sharon a porcelain jar of sugar. “Bring it back when you are finished,” she orders, but before she can continue, a cell phone rings in the kitchen. “Stay here.” She returns to the kitchen. 

 

Sharon smirks. Hopefully, Sam posing as a telemarketer can distract Renata for a while, but Sharon still moves quickly. Thankfully, Pierce’s penthouse is lavish but not enormous so Sharon goes from room to room quickly, traversing the two guest bedrooms, the bathrooms, and the second living room. She sighs in frustration when she finds Pierce’s study empty, but he’s got to have stashed the art somewhere.

 

Finally, that leaves the master bedroom. Sharon searches it as quickly as she can, including every closet but eventually admits defeat. She returns to the living room, grabbing the porcelain jar again, just as Renata returns, looking faintly puzzled.

 

Sharon masks her laugh; Sam can be confusing like that. 

 

“Bring the jar back when you’re done with it,” Renata repeats. 

 

Once Sharon is back in the bank of elevators, she tightens her grip around the jar, frowning. “ _ Fuck _ ,” she hisses.

 

Pierce’s penthouse was empty of the art collection, which means that Steve and the rest of them have been looking in the wrong place all along.

 

* * *

 

“We could pose as servers,” Sam offers, balancing a pen on his knuckles as he hums distractedly. “Infiltrate when Pierce throws a gala or party, and leave with the art. Like we did in Copenhagen.”

 

“But that’s betting on the off-chance that Pierce will throw a party in the next few weeks,” Natasha combats. “I doubt he’ll do it when he’s already on alert from Steve going to his gallery.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam adds. “It’s almost like it  _ wasn’t a good idea _ .” He directs a pointed look towards Steve.

 

Steve sighs. “It’s been weeks, and I don’t regret my choice. Quit giving me shit for it.” He snaps his fingers. “What if we try posing as a cleaning crew?”

 

Sharon, having witnessed the last few minutes of conversation, also sighs. “Those are all terrible ideas.” She runs a hand through her hair, hesitating for just a moment before she breaks the news. “Besides, we got a problem.”

 

Steve, Sam, and Natasha turn to face her expectantly, and Natasha arches a questioning eyebrow.

 

Chewing at her lip, Sharon fiddles with her hair tie again. “The art wasn’t anywhere in Pierce’s penthouse.”

 

Sam drops his pen, and Steve gapes at her.

 

“Are you sure?” Natasha asks quickly.

 

Sharon nods. “Unless Pierce has any hidden rooms or something, I am absolutely sure. I checked every inch I could while Sam distracted Pierce’s housekeeper. I didn’t find anything.”

 

“Oh, shit,” Steve whispers. “We’ve been looking in the wrong place.  _ Fuck _ .” He stands, brow furrowing. Sharon can almost see his frustration rising as he stands up and begins to pace. “We’ve been wasting so much time.  _ Fuck _ .” With sudden unexpectedness, he turns and swings his fist towards the wall, punching it with a dull echo, and they all flinch back. He hisses in pain, and when he drops his fist, Sharon can see blood gleaming around his knuckles.

 

Quickly, Sam is on his feet, examining Steve’s knuckle. “You idiot,” he chastises him, but unlike all the previous times he’s been angry with Steve, he’s not yelling. “Did you learn to punch walls in prison? You fucking idiot.” He drags Steve to his feet and begins to pull him to another corner of the warehouse, likely to chew him out for real or to get Steve’s fist bandaged. As he goes, he exchanges a look with Natasha.

 

Sharon steps up towards her girlfriend. She knows that Natasha and Sam have been concerned over how much more aggressive Steve’s been since he got out of prison; even Sharon who only knew him through Peggy can recognize that. 

 

“Now what?” she asks, nestling closer to Nat. 

 

Natasha presses a kiss to her exposed clavicle, and Sharon shivers. “I don’t know,” the other woman admits. “We’ll see where everything goes from now.”


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve argue. Steve formulates a plan.

_“Draw me like one of your French girls, baby,” Bucky drawls, affecting a British accent, as he lounges on their bed with only a rumpled sheet to protect his modesty, chest and torso littered with purple and blue bruises - all made by Steve’s mouth._

 

_Steve, also shirtless and standing behind the easel with a paint-splattered rag slung over his shoulder with a pencil in hand, chuckles. “That’s not how the line goes, Buck.” There’s a palette resting on the side table behind him with tubes of paint strewn about the surface._

 

_“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky shoots back. He shrugs, and the sheet slips lower._

 

_Steve’s mouth waters at the site of Bucky’s exposed happy trail, but he has a vision in his mind, so he picks up his pencil and lifts it to the canvas. He traces out a rough sketch of Bucky’s features - honestly, the best sight he’s ever seen._

 

_After about twenty minutes of this, Bucky begins to fidget. For a former FBI agent, he really has no patience to sit still. “Can I see?” His words take on a bit of a whine._

 

_“I haven’t even made a decent sketch yet,” Steve shoots back, tone amused. “How am I supposed to complete my masterpiece if you keep distracting me?”_

 

_“Aren’t I a masterpiece enough?” jokes Bucky, allowing his sheet to slip lower until it barely covers his crotch._

 

_Rolling his eyes, Steve uses his pencil to lightly shape the corners of Bucky’s eyes on the canvas. “I don’t know who told you that, but they really inflated your ego.”_

 

_Bucky smirks. “Well, you know what they say. Bigger ego equals bigger-”_

 

_Steve groans, pencil not lifting from the canvas. “Aren’t you too old to make a dick joke? Besides, that isn’t even a saying.”_

 

_“But it could be.”_

 

_Steve shakes his head. “It will never be.” He finally completes the high arch of Bucky’s cheekbones and drops his pencil to the table behind him. Stepping back, he takes a good, long look at his sketch. It’s rough and light, and he’ll probably have to go over it again to add in a few more details, but his mind is already filling in the color. Bright red, a darker blue. Some yellow. All to frame Bucky’s face in the center. It’ll be perfect, the jewel of Steve’s collection, better and more priceless than anything he’s ever stolen, the sole symbol of Steve’s indescribable and overwhelming affection for Bucky. “Besides, I’m done for now.”_

 

_Bucky arches a shapely eyebrow. “Good.” He slips from the bed and stands, heedless of the sheet that slips to the floor. “Because you made me wait for quite some time. Now, you owe time.” He swaggers towards Steve._

 

_Steve swallows._

 

* * *

 

There’s a text reading ‘ _Til the end of the line_ on his burner phone that can only be from one person in particular, and Steve’s spent the entire day staring at the window by the fire escape. He’s chosen a different safehouse this time, one of the ones Bucky knows about, one of the ones they shared, but at any moment, Steve expects Bucky to appear by the window like a phantom. That’s why when there’s a knock on the front door, he startles.

 

He whips the door open with enough force that the handle slips from his hand and thuds into the wall, cracking the plaster. Both Bucky and he wince.

 

“Bit over-eager to open the door, weren’t you?” Bucky asks dryly, a sharp contrast from the last time Steve saw him.

 

Steve shrugs, attempting to tamp down the emotions rising in him, all the words that had risen in the aftermath of their last meeting attempting to spill out of him. “Well,” he says, his voice a bit higher-pitched and his words a bit rushed. “With how things ended last time, your text had me a bit on edge.”

 

The other man smiles sadly, and as Steve moves to allow him entry, he steps inside, carefully shutting the front door behind him. “I’m sorry.” His voice is solid now, his words practiced. “I meant what I said. I don’t believe that whatever you’re planning will end well, but it’s out of my control now.” He hesitates. “We don’t owe each other anything.”

 

 _Anymore_ goes unsaid, hanging in the eerie silence, and Steve bristles, a ferocious mass of _ugly_ and inexplicable emotions welling up in him. _Maybe Sam was right_ , he thinks. Maybe prison did change some fundamental parts of him, make him darker and angrier.

 

“No,” he says, loud and commanding. “I don’t buy _whatever bullshit angle_ you’re trying here.” Under the force of Steve’s words, Bucky staggers backwards, his eyes widening and the firm line of his mouth softening, but Steve’s not done. “Last time I saw you, you told me you loved me. Well, I love you too, greater than I can _fucking comprehend_ , and prison and ten years didn’t change. We may have changed, but deep down, no matter what prison did to me, we are still the same two men who fell in love with each other. It was enough that you betrayed your duty to the fucking FBI, and I know you. I know how important loyalty and dedication is to you. So I’m not losing you, especially to that bastard Pierce!”

 

His speech has the opposite effect on Bucky than he intended. Bucky steps forward, eyes flashing angrily, his hands curling into fists by his side. When he speaks, his words are deliberate and slow. “So that’s what this is about, Steve.” He scrubs a heavy hand over his face. “It’s your fucking _saviour complex_ again! I knew you weren’t capable of being pragmatic, but I thought Sam would guide you right.” He turns furiously on his heel, beginning to pace. “He’s indulging you now.”

 

“Maybe you should be yelling at Sam instead,” Steve mumbles, flushing as his own anger begins to rise. This is not going how he expected.

 

The heel of Bucky’s combat boot nearly squeaks against the hardwood floor of the apartment with the ferocity than he swivels around to face Steve. “ _No_ ,” he hisses at Steve, finger wagging in the other man’s face. “ _Don’t you dare blame this on Sam or Nat_ . I _know_ they’re at least trying to rein you in. How could you been _so fucking stupid_ , Rogers?” Realization dawns on Bucky’s features, and he stills. “This isn’t just about me, is it, Steve?” he asks in horror. “This is a revenge heist.” He pauses. “You keep telling me, Sam, Nat, everyone, even maybe yourself, that this is about me and helping me, but it’s not. You want revenge for everything he took from you.”

 

“ _He took you from me_ ,” Steve yells, and everything in the room screeches to a stop as Bucky gapes at him but doesn’t reply. Heart thundering in his chest, Steve sighs. He rages with the same _ugly_ hatred that took root the day of his sentencing and has been flourishing ever since within him. “Look. You don’t have to help us or even come near us, but just tell me where you think the art is. It’s not the Triskelion. It was when Natasha checked, but Pierce has had it moved since.”

 

“I’m not going to be complicit in your own self-destruction,” Bucky warns him, a hard and indecipherable edge to his voice. He crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s why I’m telling you this.” He sighs. “A few weeks ago, Pierce put me in charge of moving some shit to a warehouse. He had me drive ahead of a large truck; maybe that’s when he moved the art you’re after.”

 

“Where was the warehouse?” Steve asks.

 

“On the outskirts of Brooklyn, towards the docks.” Bucky drops his arms, briefly hesitating. “Look. I have to go, or Pierce will find my absence suspicious, but we’re not done.” He smiles weakly. “Just don’t die before I get back to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Perched on the rooftop opposing the warehouse, Natasha by his side, Steve gazes forlornly at the building. They’re so close to what’s inside, to recovering the art yet also so far. After he told the crew about Bucky’s mission, Natasha had disappeared for a day, and when she resurfaced, she had the address of this warehouse, the most likely one to contain the art and match Bucky’s description. Steve still doesn’t know how Natasha found it, but he knows not to doubt or question her abilities or competencies. He trusts her and her word with his life.

 

“Well,” he jokes, resting his eyes on Natasha, “we’re in the endgame now.”

 

She snorts, side-eyeing him. “Sam does _always_ say you’re dramatic.” She shoves a lock of red in her face before growing frustrated and resorting to knotting it up into a bun with the hair tie around her wrist. “Now what?”

 

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know. We have to figure out how to get inside and how to pull this all off.” _Hopefully_ , in a way that won’t anger anyone else in his life. Every time he’s seen Bucky, the love of his _fucking life_ , so far, Bucky has become angry at him, and Steve doesn’t know if he can emotionally deal with that anymore, especially with having to focus on this heist. It’s all for the greater good, for _them_. But hell, even Sam chewed him out when he confessed about his trysts with Bucky. “Any ideas?”

 

“Nothing clean,” Natasha tells him, shaking her head. “Nothing victimless.” She raises the pair of binoculars hanging around her neck to peer through them at the warehouse, likely searching for any unusual building design features they haven’t already identified. It’s likely just to distract herself though. Buildings don’t magically transform over the course of two hours or less. She sighs, dropping the binoculars. “Look, we know that it’s standard warehouse.”

 

“So that means two regular entrances,” Steve adds, counting off on his fingers. “One on each side. Plus, the loading bay doors on the left-hand side.”

 

She nods. “Besides that, there are windows at regular intervals throughout the warehouse. They’re too high to try to access from the outside. You would have to climb the walls somehow.”

 

“I don’t know if there would be enough time for that either.” Steve bites his lip, deep in thought as he runs through memories of past heists in his head. “Especially with the fact that Pierce’s armed guard drives by every two hours.”

 

Natasha hums. “He probably planned it that way.”

 

“What do you mean?” Steve turns to her, eyebrows raising in surprise.

 

“Pierce is a tricky bastard,” Natasha begins, “but he’s smart. He likely planned the schedule of his guards around the security system in the warehouse. I bet you that it takes exactly two hours to manually disable the security system or just get close enough to hack into it.”

 

“Just in time for Pierce’s men to swoop in and grab you,” Steve concludes, an idea sparking in his mind. “Because Pierce is smart. He always knows what he’s doing, plays the board like a chessmaster.” _Pierce is clever. He plotted this out. You were a pest in his side, so he took you out._ Bucky’s words echo in Steve’s head, and a painful burning rage begins in simmer in him as the implications of Pierce’s maneuvers hit him. Pierce forced the game so Bucky played right into his hands. “And he’s a dirty judge.”

 

 _Pierce has his hands in everything. Murder, intimidation, robberies, etc. Dirtiest federal judge I’ve ever seen_ , Bucky had said.

 

Natasha’s jade eyes narrow in comprehension. “You want to outwit Pierce. Is that even possible?”

 

Steve sets his jaw, his motive sharp and crystalline in his mind. “It has to be. Everything, everyone, they all have their flaws. Nothing is invincible. Pierce has to have a chink in his armor. Something, anything. A hubris. And I’ll find it. Because I don’t want to just outwit him.” He grits his teeth, fists tightening by his side. “I want to bring him down.”

 


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce threatens Bucky. Bucky confronts Steve and his crew.

 

_ “Take a seat, Mr. Barnes,” Pierce says, waving a hand in the direction of the chair before his desk.  _

 

_ Keeping his face still and composed, Bucky tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He nods before slipping into the chair Pierce is gesturing towards. “How can I help you?” _

 

_ Pierce’s face slips into that familiar smarmy smile that Bucky despises. “I have a new job for you, Mr. Barnes.” He lifts a thin file from his desk and hands it to Bucky. _

 

_ Bucky lifts the file open to find the small brown eyes of a bald Latino man with thick-rimmed glasses staring up at him. It’s a picture of one Jasper Sitwell, lawyer, originally from Arizona and now based in Manhattan at a nearby firm. It looks like he’s the lead prosecutor on a case Pierce will be judging soon. At least, that’s what Bucky gleans from the profile inside the file with a niggling sense of dread. Despite his uneasiness, he turns back to Pierce. “What about Mr. Sitwell?” _

 

_ “I want you to take him out.” _

 

_ Pierce’s words - and his serene smile as he orders someone’s murder - sour the contents of Bucky’s stomach as he fights to keep his expression still. “Okay.” He swallows, bile rising in the back of his throat. In the past year since Pierce had him freed, he’s only ordered Bucky to clean up his messes: break-ins, intimidation,  _ literally  _ clean up crime scenes, etc. This is different. Bucky is used to a gun in his hand; in the FBI, he had been in precarious positions before where he was required to shoot-to-kill, and he doesn’t doubt that he’s taken out some dangerous people with his bullets. This isn’t that; Pierce is ordering Bucky to actually  _ murder  _ someone, without knowing whether they deserve it or not. Bucky gulps. He’s not a killer, but Pierce is trying to turn him into one. “No.” _

 

_ Pierce’s eyebrow raises slightly at Bucky’s response, but he doesn’t look fazed. “I beg your pardon?” _

 

_ “I said no,” Bucky repeats more loudly, gritting his teeth. His hands ball into fists in his lap, and his fingers itch for the knife hidden in his boot as Pierce’s smile only widens. “When you had my sentence reduced, you asked for  _ one  _ favor, and I have repaid not only that but also done much more for you.” _

 

_ “Of course.” Pierce tells Bucky. “You have far exceeded my expectations, Mr. Barnes. Your debt has been repaid.” Then his tone turns sinister, and Bucky’s blood chills. “Let me just show you what will happen after you walk away.” Reaching into a desk drawer, he drops a neat but thick pile of files on his desk with a dull  _ thud _. “Here is all the evidence of your activities under my supervision.” He adds on some more files. “Some evidence of your work with Mr. Rogers.” He smiles like a shark. “And that’s not counting the activities that you haven’t committed that can be made to look like you did, which should be enough to give you multiple sentences of life in prison.” _

 

_ The blood rushes from Bucky’s face; he can feel how icy his skin has become as he gapes at Pierce. “You...you can’t do that,” he protests weakly, knowing in full that Pierce  _ can  _ and  _ will indeed  _ do so if he wishes.  _

 

_ Bucky’s not sure if he’s imagining the sheer malice he sees in Pierce’s eyes. “That’s not all, Mr. Barnes. If you walk away or even manage to worm yourself out of my clutches, Mr. Rogers will not see the light of day. He will be locked away so deep in prison, he will lose all hope. A bullet to the head would be much less painful than that slow suffering.” Pierce smooths the top of the files. “But even a bullet can be arranged.” He laughs smoothly. “Don’t you see, Mr. Barnes? You have no choice in this matter.” _

 

_ Some small part of Bucky, the good part that believed in hope and love, shrivels up and dies in that moment. He nods, feeling too weak to even stand. “I’ll kill Sitwell.” He swallows. “I’ll comply.” _

 

* * *

 

 

“Sit, Mr. Barnes.” Pierce gestures to the seat before his desk, and Bucky tries not to roll his eyes as he sits down. 

 

“You called for me?” he asks, and Pierce nods.

 

“It has been more than several weeks since Steve Rogers’ release from prison,” Pierce says, setting his pen and straightening out the files on his desk. He turns a stern glare onto Bucky, who shivers. “Have you been in contact with Mr. Rogers or any of his associates?”

 

Bucky’s heart thuds in his chest, and his lips press together in a firm line. “No,” he replies, hoping that Pierce can’t hear the waver in his voice. “I have not been in any contact with them. Haven’t heard from them either.”

 

Pierce nods again. “Of course, Mr. Barnes. I believe you for now.” He smiles at Bucky in a way that chills him to the bone. “But if I find out that you are lying to me, you will sorely regret it.”

 

“I know I will,” Bucky replies, setting his jaw firmly. He rises steadily and makes his way out of Pierce’s office without stumbling. Only when he’s in an abandoned hallway does he allow himself to give into the wild panic wracking his body.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky tails Steve closely, all the way to a warehouse on the opposite side of the city, an almost mirror to Pierce’s warehouse, and kneels on an opposing rooftop, watching as Steve slips inside. After almost ten minutes of no one following him inside, Bucky concludes that the rest of the crew is already inside the warehouse and slips from the rooftop, scrambling down the wall like a spider until his boots strike the pavement. He strides quickly towards the door, picking its lock with surprising ease - it almost looks like Steve has become lax and lazy with his security - before he slips inside himself and finds Sam, Steve, Natasha, and a blond woman - Sharon, Peggy’s niece, he realizes - seated around a rickety-looking folding table.

 

“ _ This  _ is your crew?” slips from his mouth in surprise without him meaning to, and all four jerk their heads up in alarm.

 

“ _ Bucky _ ?” Steve asks, gaping at him. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?”

 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Bucky strides closer. He presses his lips together. “I followed you, you idiot,” he says sternly. “You’re slipping up. Prison made you complacent.”

 

For some reason, his remark causes Steve’s anger to flare up, his eyes hardening. “That’s rich coming from you,” Steve spits at  him suddenly. “Seeing that you barely served a tenth of your sentence.”

 

“ _ Steve _ ,” Bucky pleads helplessly, but he didn’t anticipate his words having  _ this _ effect on Steve. “Stevie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

Behind Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Sharon are beginning to look concerned, but Steve stands, hands balled into fists by his side. “You told me that you didn’t want to be complicit in my own self-destruction,” he tells Bucky, tone sharp and accusatory. His pale Irish skin that Bucky always teases him about has taken on a bright angry flush. “So why do you keep popping up? Why do you following me?”

“Hey,” Sam says sharply, shoving his way in front of Steve and turning to face both of them. “Shut it, Rogers. Barnes would only be here for an important reason. After all you’ve told us about how Pierce’s pinned him down, I don’t think he would be here if it wasn’t worth it. He’s risking a lot.”

 

“Sam,” Natasha intervenes, standing and stepping forward a bit, her jade gaze indecipherable as it rests on Bucky. “Steve.” He has a feeling that it’ll be her turn to chew him out soon. She is to him as Sam is to Steve. “Let Bucky explain.”

 

Bucky lifts his head, eyes locking Steve’s, the other man still looking belligerent. “I know what I said last time I saw you, Steve,” he begins, “and I don’t regret it. You’ve always had a self-destructive streak.” Steve flinches back like Bucky’s attacked him, and Bucky’s heart twinges in pain, but he only voices the truth he knows. No matter how it affects Steve, he has to hear it. “But Pierce threatened me yesterday of what he could do to me, to  _ us _ , if he found out that I was in contact with you, and it put things into perspective for me.” Steve’s eyes have darkened, and even Natasha and Sam look hesitant. Sharon is only watching him thoughtfully. “I do believe that it isn’t possible to go against Alexander Pierce and win, because I’ve seen what happens afterwards.” He thinks about Jasper Sitwell. “I’ve had to deal their fates.” He sighs and straightens up, voice unwavering. “I love you, Steve Rogers, and I care about Sam and Natasha. I don’t want to see the same happen to all of you, and that’s why I’m going to try my  _ damned  _ hardest to help you and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

 

There is a lingering eerie silence from his little speech that hangs over them like a dark storm cloud for a few minutes until Sharon steps forward and claps. “That’s good and all,” she says, “but can we go over the actual plan?”

 

Unsure, Bucky chuckles slightly. “You really are like your aunt.”

 

Sharon turns to stare at him, and he falters slightly under the weight and ferocity of her gaze. Then she smiles brightly, her features lighting up prettily. “I think I like you,” she says. “You really are Rogers’ better half.”

 

“I beg to differ,” Steve mumbles, but he still somewhat meets Bucky’s gaze and smiles too. “He’s the best half.”

 

Natasha clears her throat with a cough as they all take seats around the folding table again. She gives Bucky a quick rundown on their plan, and Bucky fills in additional details on the warehouse or corrects her as she goes. They seem to have mostly made accurate assumptions about the warehouse and Pierce’s business; Bucky doesn’t know if it’s been a while since he’s planned a heist or what, but he’s impressed.

 

“So how do you plan to beat Pierce’s alarm system?” Bucky asks. “I’ve seen the one at SSR. It’s seriously state-of-the-art.”

 

Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Sharon stare at each other awkwardly until Steve finally pipes up, “The thing is that...we don’t plan to.”

 

Bucky raises an incredulous eyebrow at them. “You want to trigger the alarm and then be found by Pierce’s little soldiers?”

 

“Well,” Sam says, shrugging, “not necessarily Pierce.”

 

Steve nods. “If there’s some way we can bring Pierce’s illicit activities to the FBI’s activities without being implicated ourselves…” He locks eyes with Bucky. “We want to help you. We want you to be free.”

 

“Don’t you think I’ve tried…” Bucky allows his voice to trail off and fade, rubbing a heavy hand over his bleary eyes. He sighs. “Look. That won’t be easy. Pierce is paranoid as hell and has the manpower to stop us.” He watches the faint glimmer of hope begin to fade from Steve’s eyes. “Still, there’s one man who might be able to bring down Pierce. He was always distrustful of him and might be able to help you.”

 

“Who?” Sam asks cautiously.

 

“Special Agent-In-Charge Nick Fury.”

 

* * *

 

 

As Sam, Natasha, and Sharon leave the warehouse, Bucky hangs back. “Steve,” he calls as the other man makes his way towards the door.

 

Steve glances back hopefully before heading back to Bucky. “Yeah?”

 

“Look,” Bucky begins. “I..” He’s at a loss for words, and he doesn’t think they would be able to convey what he wants to Steve anyways. So instead, he steps forward and gently pulls Steve in by his waist into a soft but passionate kiss. He hears Steve’s breath hitch and feels Steve’s nose bump against his own. Steve’s hair is soft under Bucky’s meandering hands, and when their lips finally part, Steve doesn’t step back. Instead, he leans his forehead against Bucky’s, and they remain in their own private little bubble for a brief moment. “I love you,” Bucky mutters against Steve’s lips. “I love you, and I don’t want to see anything happen to you. I want you to be happy.”

 

“You don’t understand yet, do you?” Steve protests softly in reply. “You are my happiness.”

 

A bright, warm glow fills Bucky’s body, and he wants to pull Steve in for another kiss, but he knows where that could end, how easily they get distracted. “That’s the thing,” he tells Steve. “Even if this plan works, I don’t know if I’ll ever get free of Pierce.” Steve attempts to speak, but Bucky hushes him gently before continuing. “Even if Pierce is arrested and indicted, I don’t know how many more copies of his ‘evidence’ still exist. Someone else might always be able to find it and use it against me. There might not be freedom for me.”

 

Steve nods, looking thoughtful. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he says before tilting his head and drawing Bucky into another warm kiss.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve visits Nick Fury. He and Bucky share a post-coital conversation. Tony makes a surprise cameo.

_ How does one gather the courage to walk into a diner and plead the man who arrested him for help?  _ Steve wonders, sighing. 

 

It seems that the answer won’t come to him while he sits stalling in his car. He can’t see Fury inside, but according to Natasha’s intel and Bucky’s stories of his former boss, he’s inside, seated in a back booth that allows him view of the entire dinner. Apparently old and paranoid FBI habits don’t die easy.

 

Gathering his courage, Steve slips from his car, locking it with a beep, and approaches the diner. A bell above the door chimes as he enters and then scans the interior. Both Natasha and Bucky were right; Fury’s sitting exactly where they’d predicted, a large open newspaper blocking out Steve’s view of his face.

 

Steve slowly walks down towards the booth and slides into the side opposing Fury, surveying the empty cup of coffee and the plate containing half a slice of horizontal-cut toast on the table. Almost immediately, the newspaper lowers, and Fury’s single eye peeks over assessingly.

 

“Steve Rogers,” he deadpans. “I’ve been wondering when I would see you. Phil told me about your little visit.”

 

“Fury.” Steve nods in reply. “Truth be told, I wasn’t really planning a visit, but circumstances called for it.” He pauses. “You haven’t aged a day.”

 

It’s true. A retired Fury has shed his dramatic billowing leather coats or FBI windbreakers for a more subtle jacket that’s folded and stashed between him and the window. Besides that and the faint wrinkles around Fury’s eyes, he still looks exactly like he did when he ruined Steve’s life.

 

“Wish I could say the same, Rogers,” Fury shoots back, “but prison made you haggard.”

 

“It wasn’t prison,” Steve says as he absentmindedly scratches the linoleum of the table. With a throat-clearing cough, he straightens up and meets Fury’s gaze headon. “I need your help to bring down Alexander Pierce.” He lowers his voice. “Bucky said you’re the only one who knows how to.”

 

Amusement flickers across Fury’s features as his eyes widen, and then he doubles over, snorting in laughter and expressing more emotion than Steve’s ever seen him display before. Fury slaps his thigh a couple of times as his laughing begins to cease and he straightens up, still looking highly entertained. “You, motherfucker,” he says to Steve, words a wheezy. “You want me to help you take down Alexander motherfucking Pierce, a powerful federal judge  _ and  _ my close and personal friend?”

 

Dread forms in Steve’s gut, feeling like a solid stone sinking, and his heart seizes tighter and tighter. This is really not going the way he expected to. He doesn’t know what Bucky was thinking when he told Steve that the only one who could help them was Fury. 

 

After moments pass of Steve staying silent - unknowing of how to respond - and with Fury still breaking off into dying chuckles, Fury finally stills and calms down. His expression becomes deadly and utterly serious. “I’ve been waiting for this day to come,” he admits with a soberness that reveals to Steve some of what made him a highly-ranking FBI agent, “but I never thought it would be you, the thorn in my side for over two decades.”

 

“ _ What _ ?” Steve asks in complete astonishment, mouth growing dry.  _ Is Fury still fucking with him _ ? He wishes Bucky or Natasha were here; they’re better at the double layers, shadow, and secrecy stuff. They grew up together in that world to survive. Steve’s just an art student-turned art thief and forger.

 

Fury nods. “Alexander Pierce is the sole most corrupt individual I know. He’s a motherfucking snake, and I’ve been sick of him for over twenty years, but there’s only so much I could do.” His eye glints darkly. “Pierce has ties to almost everything in the government, including the FBI. I had high aspirations of bringing him down until I realized that I couldn’t do it alone. It would take a team, one outside the FBI. I just didn’t realize it would be outside the law too.”

 

“But you said that Pierce is your friend?” Steve protests weakly, his mind churning a thousand miles a minute. He’s still trying to understand Fury’s motives here.

 

The older man’s jaw sets. “Pierce funds the NRA and almost every major white nationalist group in the country. The man could be no friend of mine no matter how hard he fakes. This man declined the Nobel Peace Prize. He said peace wasn't an achievement, it was a responsibility. See, it's stuff like this that gives me trust issues.” Fury grits his teeth. “And the last time I trusted someone, I lost an eye.”

 

Steve inhales sharply; by all accounts, it seems like Pierce is a much worse individual than they originally accounted for.

 

Fury turns his critical eye on Steve. “What do you have against this motherfucker?”

 

“He’s got Bucky,” Steve replies, his fingers curling into fists atop the table. 

 

Fury’s gaze flickers towards his hands before he briefly huffs in laughter. “It’s thoroughly fucking ironic that Agent Barnes is your weak spot when we were the ones who created it.” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure that Agent Barnes doesn’t willingly work for Pierce?”

 

At Fury’s words, Steve sees red. “You know Bucky,” he growls. “ _ He would never _ .” He struggles to get his harsh breathing under control and calm himself down. “Pierce calls him the Winter Soldier.”

 

His breath hitching, Fury presses his lips together in a tight, firm line. “I’ve heard of him,” he admits. “You’re right that that doesn’t sound like Barnes.” He sighs. “Look, Rogers, everything I’ve got is circumstantial. Pierce was at the right place at the right time, but his alibi always held up. He makes “contributions” to shady parties, but there is never any hard, physical evidence. That’s what you need. A lynchpin. Hard, physical evidence.”

 

“That can’t be that hard to find.” His voice is weak, and even as he says it, he doubts himself. Hard, physical evidence. It sounds like a Herculean task. Pierce is a careful, careful man; he would never leave something behind to implicate him. Steve voices this thought to Fury.

 

“You’re right in that assumption, Rogers,” Fury replies. “It’s up to you now. I’ve exhausted countless hours and manpower on bringing down Alexander Pierce. We could never track his money dealings.” He steadies his one-eyed gaze on Steve. “If you could find proof of that, it could be your lynchpin.”

 

* * *

 

 

The bed thuds into the wall one last time from the force of their movements, and then Steve collapses onto the bed besides Bucky, both men sweaty, spent, and pleasure-stricken.

 

“Ten years without sex,” Bucky groans as he stretches satisfactorily against the crumpled sheets, his bones cracking with a noise that makes Steve grimace, “and we make up for that by fucking like rabbits for a week.”

 

“I never knew how much I missed you,” Steve replies, voice still a little breathless, “until now.” His smile is soft, sleepy, and goofy.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky replies dryly, casting a pointed glance at the colorful hickeys littering his upper torso and shoulders. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

 

Steve flushes. “I refuse to be shamed for loving you,” he jokes.

 

Rolling his eyes, Bucky flops over on his side to gaze lovingly at Steve, carefully tracing the other man’s features with his fingers like he wants to burn Steve into his memory. “Tell me what Fury said again?”

 

“We need evidence against Pierce. Something solid, tangible, and undeniable. A lynchpin. Maybe related to Pierce’s financial records.” Steve moves to brush a stray lock of hair from Bucky’s face as the other man’s expression shifts into one of deep pondering. “You need a haircut, Buck.”

 

Bucky breaks from his deep thought and turns a critical eye on Steve. “Like I have time to go to the barbershop in between being blackmailed by a federal judge to perform unspeakable acts and plotting to bring said federal judge to justice, Stevie.”

 

“Just saying.” Steve shrugs. “Can you think of anything like what Fury was describing that you might have seen Pierce use?”

 

“One thing,” Bucky begins slowly. “I’ve seen Pierce write in a book occasionally. It’s a red book with a black star. He always keeps it in a safe in his office in SHIELD. He never lets anyone touch the book or the safe.” His eyebrows furrow. “I did catch a glimpse of it once, and I saw a few pages of what looked like financial transactions. It could be a ledger.”

 

“Huh,” Steve says thoughtfully. “I always thought that someone like Piece would use technology to protect himself.”

 

Bucky nods. “He does, but there’s only a limit with people like Stark and Daisy out there in the world who can easily hack into systems.”

 

“So do you think that the book is still there?” Steve asks, hurriedly. Adrenaline is beginning to strum through his veins. This could be it; this could be how they bring Pierce down. “In the safe?”

 

“I think so,” Bucky replies. “It’s unlikely to be moved.” He sits up hastily to focus his full attention on Steve. “But you’re underestimating Pierce, Stevie. This safe will be uncrackable, even for you or Nat.” He swallows, expression a bit stricken. “And getting this ledger to Coulson or the FBI without getting ourselves in trouble will be damn near impossible.”

 

There’s a growing ferocity roaring in Steve’s mind, drowning out any reason. They’re so close to this victory that he can taste it, the coppery burning of blood filling his mouth as he bites down too hard on the inside of his gum. “Well,” he says finally to Bucky, “we have to damn well try.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh captain, my captain,” Tony cheers, leaning against the bar in his living room with a glass of bourbon in hand, as the elevator spits out Steve.

 

Despite his heavy sigh, Steve smiles widely. “You ever gonna let go of that nickname, Tony?” It’s the result of an infamous - but very fun - heist they pulled once in Greece that involved Steve pretending to a yacht captain. 

 

“Nope.” Tony sets his glass aside, and they exchange a quick hug that involves Steve patting Tony on the back and trying to avoid Tony’s hand reaching down to cop a feel of his ass. “I missed you, Cap. Ten years was far too long.” 

 

“It was.” Steve’s still smiling, even as he steps back from Tony’s wandering hands. He always did have a soft spot for the Stark despite how frequently they clashed heads. “Hey, congrats on Pepper again. I’m still surprised you won her over. She was always too good for you.”

 

“She still is.” Tony smiles dopily. “What about the other thing?” When Steve’s eyebrows rise up in surprise, he chuckles. “I guess Wilson never told you. We’ve got a little one now. Morgan. She’s five now. Named after Pep’s eccentric uncle.”

 

Steve widens his eyes in astonishment, feeling a flicker of bright and infectious happiness. “That’s amazing,” he tells Tony. “I’m so, so, so  _ happy  _ for you, Tony!” He’s still a little shocked; Tony never really seemed like the person who ever wanted to settle down, but Steve’s glad he found his happiness.

 

“Thanks, Rogers.” Tony smirks, but there’s genuine joy and pride in his eyes. “Now, what did you need?”

 

“I know you promised Pepper that you wouldn’t physically get involved in anything,” Steve begins, “but we’re trying to bring down Alexander Pierce.” Tony’s eyebrows raise questioningly. “Do you have any tools that could crack a safe with next-gen tech? Or a way we could get evidence to Phil Coulson and the FBI without literally handing it to them?”

 

“So you want to bring in Agent?” Tony asks. The way his eyes slightly unfocus means he’s already a million miles away, deep in thought. After several moments of him humming and tapping his fingers against his thigh, he finally brings his gaze back to Steve. “I’ll do you one better, Cap. Instead of bringing the evidence to Coulson, I can help you bring Coulson to the evidence.”


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's plan plays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This* chapter is my favorite of all I've written, and it's in a much different format than I usually write. Leave a comment, and lemme know what you think.

 

“Well,” Steve says as he casts a steady glance over his assembled crew - Sharon and Natasha in one corner with Sharon’s arm wrapped around Natasha’s waist, Sam seated at the rickety old folding table with his legs crossed, Tony leaning dramatically against a concrete pillar, and Bucky standing against the opposing wall a little less dramatically - and then rubs his sweaty hands together, “the time has come, I guess. It’s go time.”

 

There’s brief silence for a moment, and then Tony casually turns his head to the side to ask Bucky, “His speeches used to be a lot better than this, right?” He fiddles with his phone. “Am I just misremembering? I’ve been out of this game for a while.”

 

Bucky snorts amusedly. “No, they used to be. Plans used to be a lot smarter too.” He shoots Steve a wink, and suddenly, some of the buzzing anxiety that had been crowding his mind and body dissipates.

 

Wiping his hands down on his jeans, Steve coughs to clear his throat and tries again. “Look,” he says. “We’re all here for different reasons for the plan, but essentially, the goal is the same. Get Coulson to the ledger.” As everyone nods or mutters some kind of affirmation, Steve approaches the table and pulls out a large blueprint of SHIELD and various multi-colored board game pieces from the box below. The rest of the crew crowds around the table as Steve spreads the blueprint flat. “Right,” he says, holding up the blue game piece. “So this is Bucky. He’s gonna be all the way on the other side of the city, doing business for Pierce.” He sets the piece meant to be Bucky on the far edge of the table. “The white is Coulson.” He sets down the new piece of the other side of the table. “He’s going to be in his office, but we need him to find out and somehow come down to SHIELD.”

 

“Except without being alerted by an alarm or by Pierce so that the rest of us aren’t at risk,” Sam surmises, leaning a bit closer to the table. “That’s where I come in.”

 

_ “Exactly.” Steve nods and sets down the red game piece that represents Sam on one corner. “Sam’s gonna go to Coulson,” he says as he pushes the piece towards Coulson’s white one, “and give him a heads-up about me possibly hitting the gallery.” _

 

* * *

 

 

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Wilson,” Coulson says as he slides back into the reclining chair behind his desk. He grabs a file in a manila folder that had been laying scattered on his desk, and as he begins to tidy it, the standing Sam catches a glimpse of Steve’s younger, smiling face. It’s Steve’s file. Coulson must have been reading it over and over again. 

 

_ That man’s getting obsessed _ , Sam thinks as he takes the seat opposite Coulson’s desk. “It’s my pleasure.”

 

“I have to say, Mr. Wilson,” Coulson begins. “I didn't expect you to come to the FBI. After all, you are one of Mr. Rogers’ known associates.”

 

“ _ Suspected _ associates,” Sam corrects him, smiling congenially. “You and your buddies never managed to prove anything despite how many times you drag me into questioning over the years.”

 

Coulson blinks owlishly, his expression not belying whatever’s running through his head. “Right.” He says it like he’s humoring Sam. “ _ Suspected _ .” He drums his fingers against his table. “What brings you here, suspected or not?”

 

Sam goes straight for it. “I think Steve’s going after Alexander Pierce,” he admits, wringing his hands together in an attempt to appear nervous.

 

Coulson, who had been previously taking a sip from his coffee cup, sputters and sets the mug down. “I’m sorry,  _ what _ ?” He digs out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs around his mouth. “Why would you think that?”

 

Locking with Coulson, he allows his frustration and worry over Steve to leak into his tone. “I’ve been around Steve ever since he got released, and he’s been getting more and more obsessed over Pierce. Something about Pierce sentencing him and Barnes. I saw him yesterday for lunch, and he was acting really shifty.” He sighs, frowning. “I think he’s going to hit Pierce’s gallery soon. Today maybe.”

 

Coulson’s eyes narrow. He purses his lips. “Why should I believe you?” He holds Sam’s gaze for several long moments before his cell phone buzzes suddenly. He takes a peek at the screen then abruptly jumps up, hastily masking the alarm in his features. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilson, but I’ll need you to head out. I’ve got some sudden business that I need to address.”

 

“Gladly.” Sam nods and waits out in the elevator bank while he watches Coulson gather some agents and rush past. He knows exactly what message Coulson received, because it was chosen by Steve himself: a grainy security camera shot of Steve walking towards SHIELD. 

 

As he exits the building, he pulls out his own phone and fires off a singular text.  _ Game on _ .

 

* * *

 

 

_ “While Sam’s off doing that,” Steve begins, fiddling with a black game piece, “Pierce will be in his office like he always is, according to Bucky.” He pushes the piece into the area that represents Pierce’s office on the blueprint. “We need someone to lure him out, and that’s what Tony’s gonna do.” He lifts a silver game piece and places it at the entrance of the gallery. _

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr. Stark,” Alexander Pierce says as he approaches Tony, distracting him from where he was standing before a large portrait and chatting with a woman. He shakes his hand in a formal, tight grip, and Tony tries to hide his wince. “My gallery director let me known that you were here and asking for me. How can I help you?”

 

Tony smiles, channeling his best impression of Pepper when she’s forced to rub noses with smarmy misogynistic businessmen who don’t think that she’s capable as a woman CEO. Which is often and with many businessmen, sadly. “Mr. Pierce! You come highly recommended by my wife Pepper. She’s the CEO of our company, you know.” At his mention of Pepper, Pierce’s eyes darken.  _ Gotcha _ . As if Tony really needed more proof than Steve and Buckaroo’s stories that Piece is a piece of shit, but Pierce is really digging his own grave here. “Our tenth wedding anniversary is coming soon, and I really want to surprise her. Decorate every inch of Stark Tower in high-end art. And of course, as the owner of SHIELD, you’re bound to be able to help me the best.”

 

Pierce nods, affecting a smile. “I know Mrs. Stark’s excellent taste. Of course, I’ll be able to help you.” He leads Tony deeper into the gallery, heading too close to his office for Tony’s comfort. “She’ll surely like our collection of Impressionists.”

 

_ Shit _ . “Oh, no,” Tony says, maybe a bit too aggressively, and Pierce turns to look at him strangely. “I mean, Pepper has always prefered Modernists,” he says, clutching Pierce and dragging him in the opposite direction. “She likes pops of color against rather solid backgrounds. Pop art almost.” He begins to ramble. “Like Andy Warhol. Picasso. Maybe even Salvador Dali.”

 

Pierce barely even blinks or protests as Tony guides him. “Dali was a surrealist,” he corrects.

 

“Potato-potahto,” Tony says, hiding his smirk as they head away from the main area of the gallery. He discretely winks at Sharon, all dolled up like a Instagram model, as she squeezes past him and Pierce and heads in the direction of his office.

 

* * *

 

 

_ “So Pierce is distracted,” Bucky says, peering over Steve’s head, “but what about the guards?” _

 

_ Steve blinks. “Right. So we’ll have to distract them too.” _

 

_ “But Rumlow and Rollins already know us,” adds Sam. _

 

_ “But they don’t know me,” Sharon announces, brushing a stray lock of hair back. “I can be the distraction.” _

 

_ “Right.” Steve pushes a yellow game piece meant to represent Sharon to the main room of the gallery. “So Sharon’s our ace in the hole.” _

 

* * *

 

 

Sharon checks her watch and then glances to the right to ensure that Tony and Pierce are indeed gone. Then she slips off the gaudy ring from her fingers and drops it in the corner of the room. Quickly, she strides away into the main gallery room and stands examining a painting until her phone buzzes with a text.

 

It’s from Sam.  _ Game on _ .

 

She lingers for a moment and inhales sharply. Then she opens her mouth and screams loudly, affecting stricken eyes and a desperate pout. “ _ FUCK! _ ”

 

As predicted, heads all around the room quickly snap to her, and she sneaks a slightly smile before wildly looking between her hand and the floor, ransacking through her purse and tossing its contents onto the floor. “ _ No, no, no _ ,” she wails dramatically, yanking at her perfect curls. “ _ NO! _ ” 

 

By now, people start to gather around her, looking concerned. They murmur about whether to approach her, but she knows that she’s acting slightly berserk enough to deter them from trying. It’s not them she’s meant to lure away. 

 

She attempts one more desperate scream, and finally, the security guards come rushing towards her. There’s Rumlow and Rollins, exactly as Steve and Natasha described them. Rumlow had dark eyes, angular features, and scruff while Rollins is blond and looks incredibly constipated.

 

“What’s wrong, ma’am?” Rumlow asks as he reaches her side.

 

Sharon inhales sharply, knowing that tear tracks are starting to cut their path through her makeup, flawlessly applied like war paint and armor. She imagines the sight she must make, an incredibly polished woman in a gauzy white dress and with perfect yet slightly mussed curls on the brink of falling apart. “My engagement ring,” she gasps, voice breathlessly and words hasty. “I lost it. It fell off somewhere.” Her voice dips into a whine. “I need it! My boyfriend shut down Tiffany’s to buy it for me. It’s worth more than half these paintings.” She clutches dramatically at her hair again. “ _ I need it found _ !”

 

Rollins steps forward reassuringly. “How can we help, ma’am?”

 

Her voice becomes shrill. “I need you to shut down this gallery until it’s found. Anyone could have walked out with it by now!”

 

Rollins and Rumlow exchange a look. “Ma’am,” Rumlow says politely, “we can’t shut down the gallery, but we can help you find it.”

 

“ _ Find it then _ ,” she cries again and watches the two men scramble. While they’re distracted, she holds up a thumbs up to the security cameras, really to Natasha who is watching from behind them.

 

* * *

 

 

_ “Even with Rumlow and Rollins gone,” Sharon begins, “how do you guarantee that Rogers isn’t gonna run into any other security guards?” _

 

_ Tony snaps his fingers excitedly. “We’ll get him an eye in the sky,” he says. “A guardian angel watching over his shoulder. His very own Q.” _

 

_ Steve rolls his eyes. “You just want a reason to hack into Pierce’s network.” He doesn’t even have to look up to know that Tony is nodding eagerly. “Alright. With all of us busy, that leaves Nat,” he says as he pushes the green game piece representing her to the edge of the blueprint. “I’ll enter through the back entrance that Bucky told us about, and she’ll guide me to Pierce’s office.” _

 

* * *

 

 

“ _ Now what, Nat? _ ”

 

Steve’s voice filters into the van through Natasha’s earpiece. On screen, Steve ducks around a corner, flickering out of view of one security camera and into the trajectory of another. All he has to do is make it down this hallway successfully, but it’s getting harder and harder by the minute with constant guards passing through.

 

“Hold on,” she orders and uses the mouse to switch cameras views, trying to find a better vantage of the hallway. “Stay in that corner for just a minute.” She watches a security guard slip by on screen, barely missing Steve by a few inches. Her heart thuds. It’s been a while since they’ve done something so heart-pounding.

 

“ _ Nat _ .” Steve’s voice sounds strained. “ _ There’s only so long I can stay here. It’s a really awkward corner, and I’m screwed the moment someone takes a left _ .”

 

“Shit, Rogers,” Natasha replies, desperately switching camera angles. “Just gimme a minute. There’s a guard or two coming your way.” 

 

“ _ Guys _ .” It’s Sharon muttering. On screen, Natasha can see her in the main gallery room, sweeping her hair back to hide the motion of her whispering.  _ “What’s taking so long? Rumlow and Rollins are going to find that ring any moment now _ .”

 

“Stark,” Natasha asks hurriedly. “What do I do?”

 

Tony’s answer comes quick; he’s still stringing Pierce along. “ _ Open a door in the hallway to distract the guards. If you time it right, you should have enough time for Cap to pick the lock on Pierce’s office. _ ”

 

“Alright. One moment.” Natasha furiously types in strings of code into the program. Just in time, she glances up to see the guards turn around to investigate the disturbance she’s caused. As they approach the door, she watches Steve streak across the hallway and pull out his lock kit set. 

“ _ I’m in _ ,” he says a few moments later, Pierce’s office door shutting quietly seconds before the security guards turn around again, and Natasha breathes a sigh of relief. She leans against her chair.

 

Not even a minute later, the van door slides open, and Sam climbs inside. “We good?” he asks as he slips on his own earpiece.

 

She nods. “Steve is inside,” she replies. “Coulson?”

 

“On his way.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ “Then that leaves me to get the safe open,” Steve says, holding up a dark grey game piece. _

 

_ “Hold up,” Sam interjects. “Why are you also black? Isn’t Pierce already?” _

 

_ “This isn’t black,” Steve protests, placing the game piece on his palm. “It’s dark grey.” _

 

_ “No.” Bucky’s brow furrows. “That’s black.” _

 

_ “Guys, c’mon.” Steve’s voice takes on a bit of a whine. “I’m an artist. I know colors. This is dark grey.” _

 

_ “Hey,” Sharon says sharply. “Here’s a more important question? How will Steve open Pierce’s high-tech safe without tripping the alarm?” _

 

_ Steve shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter anymore if Coulson’s already on the way. We’ll just cut through it.” _

 

* * *

 

 

Inside Pierce’s office, Steve glances around hurriedly for the safe. Bucky had said that it was set into the right wall, squeezed between two tall bookshelves, and it is exactly there. Rushing towards it, Steve kneels down and slides the thin, pen-like laser that Tony designed from his pocket and presses the switch at its base to turn the laser on. Its tip begins to glow with a reddish light but does nothing else. His brow furrows. “Tony,” he says into his earpiece, “I turned on the laser. What now?”

 

“ _ Give it a minute _ ,” Tony orders, his voice crackling over in Steve’s ear. “ _ It needs a bit to heat up. Then you can use it _ .” He sounds a bit breathless. “ _ Hurry up though. I think Pierce is tiring of my routine, Cap _ .”

 

Predictably, as Tony explained, the laser begins to glow more directly, though it seems to take ages. Finally, when it’s an angry red and Steve can’t wait anymore. He holds the laser up to the safe, press the button, and begins to cut. He traces around the safe’s digital keypad and fingerprint scanner, carving a gap big enough so that the safe’s contents will be clearly visible when he’s done. 

 

“ _ Hurry up _ ,” Natasha orders. “ _ Coulson’s here _ .  _ Leave  _ now _ , Tony. We don’t want him to see you _ .”

 

“ _ I’m already out _ ,” comes Tony’s response.

 

Steve grits his teeth and finishes the last cut. As the laser passes over the sole remaining wire, the wire frays and burns, and then a shrill alarm begins to ring.

 

“ _ Fuck, Rogers _ !” Sharon cries, sounding breathless. She must be hurriedly making her way out of the gallery. “ _ What did you do _ ?”

 

“Relax,” Steve retorts, hackles raised as he quickly yanks his hands and the laser away from the safe, mindful of the still-cooling laser. “That was always the plan.” The front of the safe falls away, hiding the carpet with a muffled thud. “Is everyone out?”

 

“ _ Just you left _ ,” Sam confirms. “ _ Is the ledger there _ ?” 

 

Steve nods before realizing that they might not be able to see him. “Yeah.” Just visible over the jagged lip of the hole Steve’s cut into the safe is the red notebook with its prominent black star, exactly as Bucky described it. “It is.”

 

“ _ Good, _ ” Natasha says. “ _ Get out of there. Coulson’s almost to the office. Pierce is behind him _ .”

 

Just then, almost on cue, the door to Pierce’s office crashes open.

 

* * *

 

 

_ “And when you’re done?” Bucky asks, gaze focused intently on Steve. _

 

_ “We just sit back and let Coulson to his job,” Steve says, snapping his fingers for emphasis. _

 

_ “How can you trust that he’ll do want we need?” Sharon raises a questioning eyebrow. _

 

_ “Because I know Coulson,” Bucky replies, “and he’s a good man.” _

 

_ “He is,” Steve echoes. “Besides, he told me the next time he sees me, he’ll arrest me.” _

 

* * *

 

As the door swings open, Phil steps forward to stand in the office doorway, but immediately, his gaze lands on the window, pushed barely far up enough so that a grown man could slip through and into freedom. “Fuck,” he murmurs, frustration and comprehension hitting him together like a freight train. Rogers got away.

 

“What is the meaning of this, Agent Coulson?” Pierce asks, his voice stiff and formal, from behind him. “You just broke into my private office. This is certainly not legal.”

 

Phil is about to formally apologize to Pierce - he has to, no matter how much he doesn’t want to - when his gaze lands on the safe with a jagged hole cut into it. Barely visible in the safe from his vantage point is a red notebook with a black star. Fury’s warnings about Pierce come back to him in that moment. He remembers Rogers saying,  _ Bucky’s working for him. But not willingly _ . So when he turns to Pierce, he tells him, “It is when a recently-released criminal is suspected on being on the premises, especially when said premises belong to someone he already has a long, antagonistic history with. I think we have grounds to search said premises. Agents Mackenzie, Piper, and Davis?” He nods to them.

 

Something dark flickers through Pierce’s eyes, but he doesn’t protest. He sets his jaw and says, “Of course,” as he steps back.

 

Phil watches as Mack, Piper, and Davis comb through the office, though the first thing Mack does is head for the safe and flip through the notebook. Mack’s expression doesn’t change, but he comes up to Phil and hands him the notebook, saying, “Sir, you gotta see this.”

 

Phil isn’t shocked when he peruses the notebook himself before handing it back to Mack. Then he turns to Pierce. “Alexander Pierce,” he begins, reaching for the handcuffs tucked into his belt, “you are under arrest on charges of money-laundering.” The cuffs tighten around Pierce’s wrists with a satisfying click, and Phil gestures at his other agents. “Take him away, boys.”

 

The odd gleam in Pierce’s eyes darkens as he smiles politely at Coulson, allowing himself to be dragged away. “I hope you didn’t make a mistake, Agent Coulson.”

 

Once Pierce is gone from the room, Phil shivers. Then he nods at Mack. “Agent Mackenzie, put an arrest warrant out for Steve Rogers.” He sighs.  _ I did tell him I’d arrest him the next time I’d see him _ , he thinks, wishing that Rogers had escaped by a much wider margin.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil's interrogation of Pierce goes nowhere. The FBI pursue Rogers and Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please heed the tags. They serve as warnings for the next few chapters.

“He’s such a tricky person,” Phil mutters, eyes nearly pressed up against the glass of the interrogation room as he watches Pierce sit nearly completely still. Since his arrest, the judge has removed his tie and suit jacket and has rolled up his sleeves but doesn’t even fidget in his seat, staring almost directly at Phil. Despite knowing that the one-way glass prevents Pierce from seeing him, Phil still has to remind himself to not shiver. “When you discover his creepy side, he really doesn’t hold back.”

 

He turns back to face the rest of the room where Daisy, Simmons, and Fitz are gathered around a small table, combing over both paper and electronic copies of the list of Pierce’s known and legal properties. “What exactly are we looking for, sir?” Simmons asks as she shuffles through various different pieces of paper. Photocopy scans of the ledger found in Pierce’s office are spread out around them.

 

Phil narrows his eyes. “Anything unusual we can find.” He crosses his arms across his chest and turns back to watching Pierce. “I’ve got another team working on breaking down the original ledger. We’re just using these scans to see if we can find anything useful for the interrogation.”

 

“Are you sure you wanna interrogate him, Coulson?” Daisy asks. “We can get May to.” She frowns. “And I really don’t think you should interrogate him when we’re still trying to piece everything together. I don’t know if you can get anything solid from him.”

 

“No, Agent Johnson, this is something I have to do.” He sets his shoulders. “As for the evidence, we’ll get him. We have everything we need against him; we just need to piece the puzzle together. But this is about Rogers and Barnes. We may not have time to spare.” With that in mind, he exits the backroom and enters the interrogation room, taking a seat at the table that Pierce is handcuffed to.

 

The judge barely even glances up to acknowledge him. 

 

“Mr. Pierce,” Phil begins. “You’ve been arrested on charges of money-laundering.” He pauses, deliberating. “Do you have anything to say to that?”

 

Silence. 

 

The moment stretches on. After a few minutes, Pierce finally glances up, his bold blue eyes - for lack of a better word -  _ piercing _ into Phil’s own brown eyes. For the briefest of a moment, it seems, as Pierce opens his mouth, that he’s actually going to respond.

 

Then Pierce goes and says, “I want a lawyer.”

 

* * *

 

 

It goes on like this for half an hour. Every question Phil asks, Pierce stonewalls by asking to see his lawyer. Phil asks about Rogers? Lawyer. Phil asks about Barnes? Lawyer. Phil asks anything at all? Lawyer. 

 

Frustration grows in Phil like he’s a kettle, but the steam contained in him has nowhere to go. Despite his usual demeanor of cool and collected, the steam gathers in his head, muddling his thoughts and heating his judgement. After another ten minutes of the interrogation going  _ abso _ -fucking- _ lutely  _ nowhere, he smiles politely at Pierce, nods, and exits the interrogation room, entering the backroom. 

 

It’s empty, Daisy and the others likely having left after the first twenty minutes of the useless interrogation, and all Phil wants to do is loudly yell  _ Fuck _ **_,_ ** but the room is not  _ that _ soundproofed. Instead, a few of the scans of the ledger are still scattered on the table, so Phil strides forward and gathers a page or two in his steady hands, futilely combing over the information.

 

Not even five minutes later, Daisy finds him there, bursting through the door, laptop carefully balanced in her arms. There’s a wild look in her eyes. From his seat, Phil catches a glimpse of paused security footage on her laptop screen. “Sir,” she says with equal frenzy to match her expression, “cameras outside a bodega in Brooklyn caught Rogers driving a car with Barnes in the passenger seat. Additional traffic footage places them at the outskirts of Brooklyn. It seems like they were in a rush. They broke a lot of speed limits.”

 

Adrenaline begins running through his veins, and Phil jumps to his feet. “Does Pierce own any properties in that area?”

 

Daisy nods, having comprehended, and quickly taps at her laptop. “One. A warehouse. We found it in the ledger, but it’s actually registered under his name.”

 

Phil nods, and his headache begins to recede. “Tell the team to gear up. We’re going to get Rogers and Barnes.”

 

* * *

 

The SUV rockets over the curve as Mack snaps the wheel to the left and jams his foot down on the accelerator. Daisy’s in the backseat, but both she and Phil are clutching onto their door handles for dear life. Phil must be getting so many bruises and bumps from Mack’s rough and hasty driving, but time is their enemy here. Any moment Rogers and Barnes could get away from the warehouse, in turn getting further away from Phil and the FBI. If anything, he wishes they could go faster like the frantic beating of his heart.

 

From their left and right and all around them comes the cacophony of sirens as the NYPD squad cars fall in ranks behind them. Somewhere nearby are the other FBI SUVs. It seems that every FBI agent and NYPD police officer is heading towards this warehouse.

 

Mack steers the SUV past a final right turn, and then it’s a straight race down towards the docks, down to where the warehouse is. They are in front of the army of vehicles, and the distance between them and their destination grows shorter and shorter by the approaching minute. Phil fears it may not be enough.

 

Finally, the warehouse can be faintly made out from the windshield, and Mack only presses harder on the accelerator, the SUV loudly roaring forward.

 

“There’s no one there, sir,” Daisy cries over the rumbling engine, her face growing pale. 

 

Indeed, she’s right. There’s a standard black sedan parked outside the warehouse, but no one and no other vehicles are in sight. 

 

“Careful, guys,” Mack says, and with a sudden jolt, the SUV makes a short half-circle when they are a good distance away before Mack slams on the breaks, dust clouding up into the air from the still-spinning tires. If Phil wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, he would have been thrown against the windshield.

 

Phil doesn’t bother to wait for Mack to turn the engine off; he throws the door open and jumps out, unholstering his gun before he begins to run at the warehouse at full-speed while the squad cars and other SUVs screech to a halt behind him. He’s not even made it several feet when his feet suddenly falter; he stares at warehouse, mind racing to untangle the web of confusion. Something’s not right.

 

He turns around to face the other agents and officers. “Everyone,” he yells. “Get back!”

 

With a loud whoosh of bright flames, the warehouse explodes.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson deals with the aftermath of the explosion. He interrogates Stark, Wilson, and Romanoff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, please remember to heed the tags. This is the second-to-last chapter. The final chapter will be posted tomorrow along with the art. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and sorry????

“It’s them.”

 

Even as Simmons confirms it, Phil can feel the curdling ball of dread settling heavy in his stomach. He can still feel the heat from the explosion licking his face as the force of it shoved him back. 

 

“Are you sure?” Phil asks, searching for anything to deny the incomprehensible reality.

 

He can read it in Simmons’ kind expression that she’s just humoring him. “Yes. There’s a 100% match for both DNA remains and molar samples.” Her hands clasp together in front of her lab coat-covered torso. “For both of them.” As she walks away, she turns back to Phil and hesitates, her eyes softening. “For what it’s worth, sir, I’m sorry.”

 

So then, that’s where it is. A 100% match. Irrefutable proof that the two bodies laying on the tabletop before Phil - charred to a black crisp, burned beyond recognition, and covered with two respectful white sheets - belong to one Steven Grant Rogers and one James Buchanan Barnes.

 

Phil scrubs a heavy hand over his eyes; he’s disoriented like he’s having an out-of-body experience. He didn’t want it to come to this; he  _ can’t believe  _ that it came to this. He’s a good man, a righteous man. All he wants is the right justice to come to the right people. Not  _ this _ . Not  _ like this _ .  _ This isn’t justice _ , he thinks. It’s always a dark day for people in his line of work when suspects or criminals meet a dire fate, but it’s harder when it’s people like Barnes or Rogers. People who - in different circumstances - could have been good men, on the right side of the law. Who he knew personally. At one point, he even considered Barnes a friend.

 

“Sir,” Mack says, voice soft and hushed. He’s holding up a tablet displaying a report from Daisy and Fitz. “Lab techs found scraps of surviving art in the wreckage of warehouse along with traces of extremely-illegal explosives. The current theory is that Rogers and Barnes arrived at the warehouse to rob Pierce but accidentally set off Pierce’s explosives. The resulting explosion not only destroyed the art but killed Rogers and Barnes immediately.”

 

Without turning to face Mack, Phil nods. “What else?” His voice is hoarse, and his tone is indecipherable, even to himself.

 

“An expert called in from Art Theft in DC managed to identify some of the art as belonging to a collection that Pierce had bought at an FBI auction.” Mack pauses. “The collection came into the FBI’s possession when you raided Rogers and Barnes’ loft ten years ago.”

 

“So this was revenge,” Phil surmises, heart thudding in his chest.  _ For both sides _ .

 

Mack nods. “If Rogers’ claims that Barnes was blackmailed into working for Pierce are true, then it is possible that Barnes knew about the warehouse and about the art. Lab techs also found evidence that the explosions were recently planted, which would maybe explain why Rogers and Barnes had not been prepared.”

 

“Good,” Phil says, and he nods again. “I think I’ve heard all I need to.”

 

“For what, sir?” Mack asks.

 

“To confront Alexander Pierce.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Agent Coulson,” Pierce calls almost cheerfully as Phil sets inside the interrogation room. Pierce’s eyes study his face hungrily, and then he smiles; it’s almost as if Pierce somehow knows what happened, and he’s leaching off of everyone’s anger and grief like he’s the desperate shark that he is. “It’s been several hours. Where have you been?” His smile grows. “Has my lawyer arrived yet?”

 

Phil can’t take it anymore. He stride forward and  _ slams _ his hand onto the metal table Pierce is handcuffed. “ _ I know what you did _ .” His words are hissed but are no less loud and angry.

 

“Pardon?” Pierce sounds clueless, and his demeanor doesn’t change, but Phil sees a new flicker of interest in his eyes that only fuels his rage.

 

“We found your warehouse,” Phil tells him, “the one just outside of Brooklyn. We know about your business dealings, your illegal explosives, and the explosion.” He leans forward. “You’re looking guiltier and guiltier by the minute, Alexander Pierce.”

 

“Am I?” Pierce raises a coy eyebrow. 

 

“You dug your own grave with your ledger,” Phil hisses, crosses his arms across his chest. “We have enough evidence to put you away for twenty years.” He pauses. “That’s not counting what my team’s digging up on you and your businesses as we speak.”

 

“I assure you,” Pierce responds, smile not flickering. “My lawyers will know how to respond to your accusations best.”

 

He’s losing Pierce fast, and if he slips up now, Pierce will return to stonewalling him. Phil will have to take a risk and throw all his cards on the table. He pauses for just a moment. “Your warehouse explosion killed both Steve Rogers and James Barnes.”

 

For just the slightest moment, Pierce frowns before he quickly regains his composure. “They deserved it,” he says, “for everything they put me through.” The moment the last word slips from his tongue, he slams his mouth shut as if he’s just realized what he just admitted, although his expression doesn’t budge.

 

_ Got him _ , Phil thinks. “Thank you,” he tells Pierce. “Your admission just sealed your own fate. With that, we have enough for motive to charge you with an additional arson and manslaughter.” Pierce’s eyes narrow, but Phil’s not done. “You took the law into your own hand and tried to serve your own version of justice to two decent men, except your justice was revenge.” He sighs. “Men like you are everything that’s wrong with this country and system. I’m gonna to do my hardest to see that you’re actually found guilty on all charges and are locked away in the deepest prison cell we can find. You’re not going to see even an inch of sunlight for the rest of your life.” He smiles. “That is my promise to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Now, what, Phil?” Melinda asks as they stand in a hallway, watching other agents hustle around. “The Rogers and Barnes chapter of your life is complete.”

 

Phil shakes his head. “Not yet.” He has a niggling fear that he’s missing something, and he has to follow that doubt through.

 

“And if these interrogations of yours don’t yield anything?” Melinda raises a questioning eyebrow.

 

“I’ll step back,” he says. “For good.” He knows Melinda will hold him to that, and she nods. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Daisy pass by in the hallway, her eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. “I have to go inside now, but make sure that Daisy goes home early and takes a day off.” He and May are some of the only key individuals who know just how close she was to Rogers and Barnes; she once admitted that she treated Rogers as an older brother figure.

 

With that taken care of, Phil sighs and rolls his shoulders. Then he opens the door to the interrogation room and takes a seat in front of his suspect.

 

“What did you know about Rogers’ plan?”

 

 

  * __“Nothing,” Stark says, shaking his head. “The last time I even met Steve was before his arrest.” His face is uncharacteristically pallid and sober, his expression dire. “This came out of nowhere. I’m not even anywhere near the place I was in when I met Steve.”__



 

 

 

  * __“Why would I tell you anything?” Romanoff asks. There are tears glittering at the corners of her jade eyes. “The only link we had was Bucky, and he’s gone now.” She presses her lips together, silent.__



 

 

 

  * __“I told you_ what I knew _,” Wilson hisses, visibly angry beyond belief. “I warned you, but you didn’t believe me. What did you do, Coulson? I lost my best friends.”__



 

 

“Where were you at the time of the explosion?”

 

 

  * __“I was preparing for a gala at Stark Tower. I didn’t leave the entire evening. My AIs JARVIS and FRIDAY can confirm this. So can my wife Pepper and my daughter Morgan.” Stark places his hands on the table and leans forward. “Remember, if you even try to press charges or disrupt my family and friends’ grieving during this hard time, my wife - the CEO of Stark Industries - and her lawyers will bury you and the FBI.” He blinks a sudden tear away.__



 

 

 

  * __“In Manhattan with my girlfriend Sharon,” Romanoff replies. “I had nothing to do with this.” She hesitates. “I could have maybe stopped them. Steve and Bucky might have still been alive.” She ducks her head, allowing her loose red waves to fall and shadow her face as she silently resuming weeping.__



 

 

 

  * __“Not where I was supposed to be,” Wilson admits, regret and guilt dancing in his eyes despite his still angry expression. “I should have listened to Steve and tried to stop him. If I was at the warehouse, I could have stopped him. They would still be alive.” He pauses. “And don’t consider this an admission of anything. Have decency.”__



 

 

“Is is possible that Steve Rogers and James Barnes are still alive?”

 

 

  * __Stark bristles. “Dude. How fucking disrespectful do you have to be?” He purses his lips. “Leave us the hell alone. You haven’t charged me with anything nor will you be find anything to charge me with.” Rising to his feet, he heads towards the door, turning back one last time. “I know you had some fascination with Steve and Bucky, but leave it behind. It won’t be healthy after a while.”__



 

 

 

  * __Romanoff’s eyes harden. “I had some respect for you, Coulson, because Bucky spoke highly of you, but you’re losing it by the minute.” She stands. “My friends are dead. Let them like peacefully, or you’ll regret it.”__



 

 

 

  * __“What did I_ just _say, man?” Wilson jumps to his feet. “How fucking disrespectful?” His lips press together tightly. “I haven’t even been able to bury my friends, because your lab still have their bodies. Now, you’re hounding me and preying on my grief. You’re sick, Agent Coulson. Let Steve and Bucky stay dead.”__



 

 

Outside, in the backroom, Melinda gently drops her hand over Phil’s as he braces himself against the table. “Anything?” she asks.

 

He shakes his head. “It really seems that I’m making things worse. I guess I just can’t admit it that Rogers and Barnes are dead.”

 

Melinda nods. “They’re dead. You need to move on. Let them stay behind.”

 

“I guess so.” Phil sighs. “I need to leave them behind.”


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's legacy survives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope that this twist you well, and that you're satisfied with the conclusion of this fic that I really loved writing. Thank you for all the kind comments, and I hope you enjoy this epilogue.

Sunlight streams freely and copiously through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the aquamarine-colored ocean less than twenty yards away and make up one wall of the island beach house, casting the open space in a warm and golden glow. There’s a paint-splattered easel in one corner with a half-complete canvas, rags that used to be white and now are a faded gray tucked around the side. Mismatched pieces of clothing lie rumpled on the floor, one pair of swimming shorts here, another cotton shirt there. Attached to the wooden ceiling is a large bamboo fan that spins swiftly and silently, casting cool air throughout the space. And tangled in the sheets of the king bed positioned directly under the sun’s beams, pillows strewn across the hardwood floor, are two young men in their mid-twenties, both shirtless and curled in towards each other, a perfect pair of parentheses.

 

Steve Rogers, blond hair flattened across his head from sleep with a noticeable tan from the last few weeks and with blue eyes blinking blearily, is first to wake, stretching his aching limbs in the warmth of the sun and the nest of blankets and sheets. His gaze quickly to turns to find his boyfriend lying beside him, and he smiles contentedly, nuzzling closer.

 

Bucky Barnes, a year older but just a few inches shorter, stirs when Steve slips an arm around his waist but really only cracks his eyes open to reveal a sliver of his stormy gaze when the other man cards a gentle hand through the mussed mess of brown curls on his head. “Keep doing that,” Bucky orders in a gravelly voice, eyes flickering completely open a few moments after Steve’s careful ministrations. 

 

It feels like deja vu as Steve obeys; it could be ten years, eleven years ago, with Steve and Bucky in bed in their Manhattan penthouse. Any moment now, Nick Fury, Phil Coulson, and their team of FBI agents will burst through the door, and the cycle of separation and misery will begin anew. Steve steels himself.

 

Except that’s not what happens.

 

Under Steve’s gentle movements through his hair, Bucky eventually falls back under the seductive calling of sleep. He snuffles slightly, unfairly adorable and boyish for being a grown man, and Steve smiles softly at him before slipping from their vast bed with its silk sheets and numerous pillows. The sun-warmed hardwood floor is a blessing for someone who is used to waking up with cold feet from prison or living in New York.

 

_ Being here _ is a blessing, especially with Bucky by his side.

 

Steve pads around to the bedside table and pours himself a glass of water; then he goes and stands by the wall of glass overlooking the ocean. While he sips at his water, his gaze travels over the long stretch of sand, so white it nearly looks bleached, and the pristine ocean waves lapping gently at the beach. It’s nearly noon, and the sun is high up and bright in the infinite blue sky. 

 

Yesterday, Steve and Bucky were on the beach, the sand a velvet carpet below and between their toes. They ran straight into the cool water, and Bucky tackled Steve to the sand, tickling him, until their embrace turned more heated. They’ve only been here for a month, and Steve’s sketchbook is full of scenes of Bucky racing on the sand or just moments of him strolling through the local town. It’s a paradise here, and Steve lowers his glass, taking a moment to breath everything in.

 

Eventually, Steve’s stomach rumbles, and he laughs slightly. Last night, they’d forgone dinner for Bucky posing for Steve’s paintings again that once again resulted in them sliding into bed. He sets the glass back on his bedside table, pouring it full of water for Bucky, then wanders to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

 

It’s way too late for breakfast or brunch - or at least it will be by the time Bucky slips out of bed, so Steve goes ahead and pulls a head of lettuce from their refrigerator and various other fruits and vegetables. The knife slices into each vegetable with a satisfying crunch, and Steve begins to hum as he tosses everything into a large bowl and gets started on making a vinaigrette dressing. 

 

The salad is nearly complete when Steve reaches for a lemon and realizes that there aren’t any left in the refrigerator. He heads outside to pluck several from the large lemon tree that casts shade over their front yard when he nearly steps on an unmarked cylindrical package wrapped in brown paper. There’s a note stuck on, a slip of thick white paper with a familiar cursive handwriting. 

 

_ Figured it was time you finally got this _

 

  * __Nat__



 

 

Steve smiles.

 

* * *

 

  
  


When he unwraps the package, it’s a careful and painstaking process, but finally, he gets it unrolled and pinned flat to the dining table.

 

It’s a painting. The colors have slightly faded over time, but they’re still bright. A knight rides through a green meadow with rolling hills on a majestic white horse; his torso is twisted as he raises his sword into the air, preparing to slay the snarling dragon on his left. Behind him, to the right of the painting, is a feminine figure in a flowing pink robe.

 

Raphael’s “St. George and the Dragon.”

 

After so long, it has finally returned to Steve. His smile stretches wider, and he momentarily retreats to the supply closet wedged between their opulent bathroom and pantry. When he returns, there’s a bottle of paint stripper and a rag by his side. Taking a seat at the dining table, he wets the rag with the stripper and brings it to the painting. He begins to swipe the rag across the painting, watching as paint gradually sloughs away in tiny flecks. 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes hours, but finally, Steve has removed most of the paint layer of the forgery and leans against the kitchen counter, sipping at another glass of water, when Bucky wanders in, bleary-eyed and still shirtless. 

 

“Hey, Stevie,” he says, inching closer and pressing a kiss to Steve’s cheek. He trails more kisses along Steve’s jawline until he reaches Steve’s mouth before hooking an arm around Steve’s neck and pulling him closer. Steve tastes mint in Bucky’s mouth and presumes that the other man brushed his teeth.

 

When they finally separate for air, Bucky steps back, stealing Steve’s glass of water. He sips it, nestling into Steve’s side, and his gaze finally lands on the painting and supplies on the dining table.

 

“New project?” he asks with a wry smirk.

 

Steve’s heart thuds in his chest. After so many years, he finally has a chance. “You’ll see,” he says and pulls away from Bucky, slipping back into the chair and resuming his work. Bucky comes to stand behind him, watching as Steve removes the remains of the paint from “St. George and the Dragon.” Underneath is an incredibly thin and almost fragile layer of canvas that Steve carefully peels back. Then he watches as Bucky’s lips part and his eyes become disbelieving.

 

“Is that…?” he asks, trailing off. The faintest glimmer of tears form over his stormy eyes, and his expression is so soft, so  _ open _ .

 

Steve nods, the emotion consuming him so overwhelming that he is unable to form words. His tongue lays thick in his mouth, useless, despite how much there is that he wishes to say.

 

The painting that lies on the table before them is definitely no “St. George and the Dragon” by Raphael, but it is one that is overtly familiar to the two men who share a vivid memory associated with it. A memory nearly as vivid as the painting itself.

 

The background itself is broken into a deep red and a dark blue like the depths of the ocean, separated by a bright yellow stripe. Prominent is a man’s profile, his dark wavy hair tucked short behind his ear, his lips slightly parted, and his crystalline gaze focused off to the side. There is the slightest shadow of scruff around his jaw. The slope of his neck is gentle and arched, and there are various colorful dots and flecks along his right shoulder.

 

Each brushstroke is gentle and infused with love, and it is quite obvious that the subject is the painter’s object of affection, his love. 

 

 

 

“How?” Bucky’s still struck speechless. A spark of comprehension lights in his eyes. “Is this what you were after? A-all along?” His voice wavers before cracking from indecipherable emotion. “You never wanted everything else?”

 

Steve can’t stay silent anymore. “Y-yes,” he blurts out abruptly. “Yeah. At least in the beginning.” He smiles helplessly at Bucky. “All that got me through prison was you. The thought of you. I imagined reuniting with you countless times. I had this whole plan. I would find you. I would get the painting back. Then we would leave everything behind.” A shadow passes over his eyes, and his heart clenches as he recalls how alone and powerless he had felt without Bucky by his side. “When Sam told me that no one knew where you were, I couldn’t believe. I might have gone a little manicial.  _ Everything _ was worse than I imagined. Pierce had you trapped under his foot, and getting the painting back was nearly impossible.”

 

Throughout Steve’s rambling explanation, Bucky’s expression had become more and more dire, but now, he attempts a feeble smile. “But everything worked out in the end,” he offers. “I’m free, and no one can ever trap me again like Pierce did, not when the whole world thinks we’re dead. We brought down a terrible, corrupt man, so in a way, we did the world a favor. And now, I’m here, by your side.” His words are genuine. “And every day here for the past month has felt surreal, the type of thing I dreamed about while I was in prison, before Pierce got to me.”

 

“It does,” Steve agrees, “because it is. Replacing the collection in the warehouse with forgeries and then blowing it up as a decoy? Possibly the most insane thing I’ve ever pulled off. But it worked. We got our share of the money and the painting, and we have each other. I can finally be happy now.”

 

Still, Bucky continues staring wistfully at the painting. “I didn’t even know you finished it,” he whispers. 

 

Steve shakes his head. “I had to. It was for you.” He reaches up to link hands with Bucky. “I made my living out of copying and forging other people’s art. I gave up on my dreams of being an artist when I dropped out of Pratt, but this is the first original piece I’ve ever finished since then.” He glances up, locking eyes with Bucky. “And it was for you. It was always for you.”

 

Bucky’s eyes are suspiciously wet again. “I always thought you were the love of my life,” he admits, “but now, I realize that you’re my soulmate. I don’t know how I ever got through life before I met you.” He frowns slightly, brow wrinkling. “We’re both just big ol’ saps,” he says with a bit of a watery chuckle. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you for how unnecessary and extreme you made everything. You’ve always been so dramatic.”

 

Steve nearly chokes. “You’re such an asshole, Buck.”

 

“Punk,” Bucky teases back.

 

“Jerk.” Steve gazes wistfully up at Bucky. He’s so  _ gone  _ on this asshole. “I love you. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

 

“I love you too.” Bucky jerks Steve to his feet and pulls him into a tight hug. “‘Til the end of the line, eh?” He raises an eyebrow. “You better not regret that.”

 

“I never will,” Steve promises.

 

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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